


The Prince Consort, Part II/VI

by Persephone



Series: Willing to Take the Risk [19]
Category: Valentine's Day (2010)
Genre: Canon Gay Character, Canon Gay Relationship, Dysfunctional Family, Family Drama, Father-Son Relationship, L.A. Life, Los Angeles, M/M, Mother-Son Relationship, Romance, Romantic Comedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-02
Updated: 2016-11-06
Packaged: 2018-08-28 16:18:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 24,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8453221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Persephone/pseuds/Persephone
Summary: A pain-free wedding in a few months? No. In which Holden steps into a lion's den of his own making.





	1. Chapter 1

The elevator dinged open and Elliot walked out, glancing over his shoulder just long enough to give him a fed up look. Close on Elliot’s heels, he stopped at the doors, grabbing them as they attempted to shut.

“ _Elliot,_ ” he hissed. “Will you stop for a second.”

But Elliot only waved him off over his shoulder, more pissed than he had seen in a long time, heading for valet like for a one-way exit. Seeing their approach, the attendants hurried off for Elliot’s car, leaving him staring after Elliot in disbelief.

This was absolutely not the reaction he had expected when he’d finally unburdened himself upstairs. When after years of playing hide and seek with his relationship with Sean, including months of dodging questions about what had split them up in January, questions Elliot himself had posed on a number of occasions, he’d finally told Elliot everything. He’d been ready for surprise, would have gladly taken sympathy. But anger?

Elliot wasn’t just angry, he was incensed. Upstairs, from about halfway into his confession, Elliot had started staring at him, back against the patio wall, eyes getting wider by the sentence. Somehow he’d completely misread the reaction and had thought Elliot was responding with the same surprise as on the rooftop at Sofitel. But on finishing, Elliot had stared stone-faced at him before suddenly deciding that, you know what, he’d had enough of the reception anyway. And before he knew what was happening Elliot was back inside saying goodbye to their hosts and grabbing his coat.

Confused, he’d followed him into the elevator, stammering an apology to a guest wanting to enter with them, and had closed the car on just the two of them. Only to get a tongue lashing that had left him feeling like his heart would pop from his chest.

All the way down Elliot had lit into him, and for long confusing moments he didn’t even know what Elliot was angry about.

Until it became clear that Elliot was infuriated because apparently everything he had suspected about Sean had just been confirmed true. That Sean actually was a “self-absorbed, high-maintenance prima donna” whose answer to everything was “entitlement and ingratitude.” That he, Elliot, was the last person to play on stereotypes but how stereotypical could a pro footballer get!

He’d simply stood there and stared blankly at Elliot. 

“And you’re _enjoying_ yourself a little too much playing trophy husband with him like you two are having the time of your lives! This is exactly the kind of nonsense your father does with his mistresses that sets your teeth on edge. Yet here you are, doing the same damned thing with your fiancé!”

Stunned in his corner of the elevator, he had simply been unable to respond.

“And what pisses me off the most is that _exactly_ like how you used to be with your dad, you don’t even know to be _angry_ with him!”

“At who?” he’d finally been able to ask, utterly baffled. “My dad? Darren?”

“Sean!”

“For God’s sake. Elliot, are you—”

“For _weeks_ I wracked my brain in January trying to come up a single reason he left so suddenly for Iowa. In my wildest Mexican novela nightmare I couldn’t have imagined that he _abandoned_ you because he was feeling _hurt_ over the fucking _thought_ of you with other men. Are you insane to tolerate that?”

“But that’s not what happened at all,” he said in a soft and very confused voice. “H-he— didn’t come up with that out of thin air. Why are you misunderstanding me?”

But by then the doors had opened and Elliot had walked out, no more insights to throw at him.

Now he watched speechlessly as Elliot’s Jaguar was raced up to the stand and as Elliot got in without another glance at him. Eyes straight ahead, Elliot put the car in gear and drove off.

Disbelief complete, he threw up his hands.

This was insane!

Literally years of hiding the behavior he was least proud of from his best friend, only to come clean and have the conversation derailed and once again the victim blamed. He couldn’t even tell whether Elliot was just being protective of him or was truly upset because he’d kept so much from him.

And, in comparison to the reaction he’d gotten at Sofitel, this was nonsense. Elliot could have sympathy for his dad’s supposed repentance but zero understanding for Sean?

About to start swearing, he cut himself off. There was no point. This was supposed to be the start of his “coming clean to get married” phase and it was starting off like a loose cannon. He might as well hold still and let everyone use him for target practice. His exes included.

Slowly, the doors to the elevators pushed against him as if trying to agree. He cast them a look and slowly stepped out of the way.

*

Alicia Keys was playing on the radio. He reached over and turned up the volume, smiling to himself as visions of a beautiful brown-haired guy in a three piece suit slowly gyrated through his thoughts. It was great to be back in L.A.

New York had also been great though, no question. A great time with his buddies aside, he’d done better than he’d expected with the Stern interview, at least getting his opinion on certain kinds of dynamics out there. It wasn’t something he’d set out to do as far as he was aware, but the opportunity had presented itself and it had felt like right thing to do. A neat touchdown of a trip.

So here he was back in the land of summer. Ready to take on wedding tasklists and photoshoots and all the other things standing in the way of weeks where he could be doing nothing. Ideally he’d be driving straight to Century City for some welcome back sugar, but his last series of texts while still in New York and wearing thin on the whole being apart thing had gotten him banned from an office visit. The good news was that Holden had promised he’d get it extra special tonight instead. A year ago, that might have been an amusing concept, because once upon a time Holden’s idea of extra special had tended toward the somewhat well, smile inducing tame. But nowadays if Holden turned it up on him, he’d feel something worthy of waiting for all right, even if it wasn’t _the thing_ he was waiting for.

The song ended and he was still cocooned in sweet thoughts. Bel Air family drama had cooled to a minimum, a major obligation for the offseason was down, and all that were left were a few manageable things, including that Patek photoshoot which he was sure would be the first words out of Kara’s mouth. 

Even wedding responsibilities were now in pre-approved, checklist form. A far cry from the holding pattern that had been the status quo for months since their return from Johnston.

And as for those checklists, he had every intention of making them earn their way. Maybe even in a way that might get him what he ultimately wanted this summer from Holden.

—

Sean had been driving him crazy all week with texts from New York. After having spent a total of six days with his football buddies who’d seen him on Stern’s show, and realizing he was in town, had all descended on each other to go hopping from one hangout to the next, Sean’s tone on the phone had been warmly apologetic. 

It was “one of those deals,” Sean had explained, as if he were standing at the airport, staring into the sky and waiting for him to come home. He’d smiled and told him to have fun.

But four days in, Sean had begun sending him texts that had left him horny and spacey and had made it difficult to keep his attention on work. Had there been pictures involved, something his mind had frantically supplied anyway, he would have at one point sent a seriously wrong email to the wrong office. So that he’d refused to read a set that came in right before he vetted a new section of the JP Morgan report, and had instead sent a text asking him to quit it, that some of them had real jobs. The following morning, after a couple of exploratory texts that he also hadn’t responded to while trying to work, Sean had called to say that he was catching a flight back to L.A. and would see him soon. 

Not knowing whether to laugh or flatly forbid it, he’d protested that he hadn’t asked him to leave New York before he wanted, but Sean had very sweetly just replied that oh no, it wasn’t a problem. He’d been on his way anyway. “You know,” said very sincerely, “I haven’t swam in a week.”

Um, ok.

So that morning, on getting the text that he’d landed safely, he called him.

“Welcome back, stranger.”

“Hi, sweetheart,” Sean murmured. “Hey, so… I’m still on the 405. You want me to come over?”

For the first time in days, he smiled. “No, because aside from it being 9am on a Tuesday morning, we also agreed that you weren’t ever going to be allowed to defile my grandfather’s desk.”

“I can be careful, sweetheart.”

“You’ve got a gorgeous day ahead of you. Go be productive and catch up on all the things you slacked off on while in New York.”

“Ah, geez, Kara.”

He smiled, again amazed by Sean’s incredible offseason laziness. “We’ll catch up this evening.”

“Six days’ worth, you know that, right?”

“I can count,” he said dryly, fighting his expanding smile. He was along in their small conference room but staff were due any moment for a meeting. He didn’t need them walking in to find him smiling like a well fed baby.

“How ‘bout a head start?” Sean asked warmly.

“No head starts.”

“A preview then.”

He tipped his head back, laughing silently at the ceiling.

“Just put your hand on your belt and I’ll talk you through it.”

“While you’re driving?”

“Especially while I’m driving.”

He shook his head. “You’re terrible.”

“Come on, Wilson,” Sean said, in a distressingly sexy way. “Why you always gotta be this way?”

“No,” he whispered, swinging his feet off the table on hearing someone outside the conference room. “I’m going back to work now.” 

“Okay, but one last thing, sweetheart. For later, you want me in home game or away colors?”  
He clamped his lips on his laughter. “Hanging up.”

“You know you wanna say it.”

“I’ll see you tonight.” He lowered his phone, shook his head and hit the end call button just as everyone started coming in. 

While they waited for the rest of the staff to arrive, he got up and walked over to the glass walls and stood looking out.

So here they were. Sean was back in town and Elliot was still not talking to him. Rather, was back to not talking to him. Staring out at the trails of traffic crisscrossing the city, he shook his head. He didn’t know which of them was worse, him or Elliot. Or whether they were both losing their minds because he was getting married. It was a possibility. Maybe this was what people meant when they said weddings made people crazy. Getting into stupid fights with your best man, maybe this was normal.

Worse, the situation with his exes was looming like a giant ballon on the horizon. And despite the emails and texts he still wasn’t sure he _had_ to do something about it. Whether the situation wouldn’t just go away if he ignored it whereas tinkering with it might pay very bad dividends. After all, he’d come this far keeping the two worlds separate. Maybe they could just hold tight, watch the summer blow over, and he and Sean would be married. And Sean could return to the season none the wiser.

These were the things he needed Elliot to help him figure out. The very reason he had come clean last night. Instead all it had gotten him was a pissed off, missing in action best man.

*


	2. Chapter 2

“I have an idea about these checklists, sweetheart,” Sean whispered down at him.

He looked up and blinked at him, trying to breathe around his thudding heart, trying to make sense of words. His hands on Sean’s thighs had stopped, on their way around Sean’s body to disappear down the back of his brand new, very sexy cotton bottoms. The pants were loose fit, just perfect for what they were doing, which was Sean straddling him and him trying to get his hands down the back of the pants. 

They were about one third of the way into their welcome back activities. He had just completed the opening kisses, and Sean had just shifted into a more comfortable position for him to proceed to the second part. Sean was bare chested, his nipples at mouth level, so it had also involved him licking his lips and double checking that the tip of his tongue was working. Now Sean was talking. And he was failing to understand what.

“You what?” he panted up.

Sean trailed a thumb across the back of his head, worsening his concentration.

“The checklists,” Sean said, apparently in perfect seriousness. “I was thinking that maybe we could set up a barter system. A specific sexual favor for each item I complete.”

He ran his tongue over his rapidly drying lips, trying not to simply fall into the hot darkness that existed between him and Sean’s chest.

“You want me to give you and example?” Sean said, staring down at him, leaving him confused. 

Sean was eyefucking him. They were both stiff as iron rods. He was only in his shirt and loosened tie, whereas Sean’s cock was out of the confines of the cotton pants, straight up against his stomach. What was Sean doing interrupting something this important? But he nodded, his head down, his thumbs pressing into Sean’s groin. With more control than seemed possible, Sean simply leaned forward and whispered in his ear. He squeezed his eyes shut at the deadly hot words, swallowing. Sean then slid his hand from around his neck, down to his chest.

“Think about it,” Sean whispered. Then he rocked forward, indicating he should continue. He moved forward, lapping at Sean’s nipple, pushing both his hands down his pants. Sean grunted softly, gripped his hair.

—

Upstairs, in bed, half asleep, he kissed the back of Sean’s ear. Sean made a soft sound full of gratitude.

“Welcome back, Sean,” he said softly.

“Thanks, sweetheart,” Sean said, his voice hoarse with sleep. “I love you. So much.”

His heart squeezed. He kissed his shoulder. Lifted his hand and kissed his engagement ring. “Sean...”

“Yes, sweetheart.”

He thought hard before he said the words. They were scary. And didn’t make sense at a time like this, knowing the kinds of messages that were in his phone. But they were true. So he held onto Sean, held physically onto him as his courage, and said the words. 

“I think I’m finally happy.”

They were both perfectly still. Then Sean slowly turned until he was on his back, staring up at him. He remained propped up on his arm, staring down, meeting his eyes.

“I mean, I don’t understand it,” he said softly. “We still have a lot of…bullshit to get through. Whatever nonsense my parents are probably hatching right now, all this stuff to do for Soirée. Not to mention still making it through your offseason without some random crazy person or group trying to fuck with your career being the only gay out NFL player. And...” he stared down at Sean’s rapt eyes. He would love him forever. Through whatever. “Whatever else might be coming this summer,” he quietly said. “Even knowing all that, being here with you, like this… feels complete.”

Sean was staring up at him as if one of them was an image and the other real, and Sean had forgotten which one. But they were both real. And tonight was real. And he knew that whatever else was coming, he would never forget that.

He gave him a smile. “Go to sleep, angel.”

Sean’s entranced little boy stare didn’t change. So he lowered himself and kissed his temple. Then moved over him, kissing him again, on his cheek, in his beard. Until Sean wrapped his arms around him and held him so tight all he could do was bury his face against his and hold him back.

*

He refused to get out of bed for as long as he could humanly manage it. Holden smiled down at him from the middle of the bedroom, struggling to control a very charming, very self-conscious kind of laughter. The one that had taken him years to unlock. The one that made him feel as if, combined with last night’s stunning confession, he was floating right off the bed. He simply laid there, his arm behind his head, and watched him check his tie in one of the bedroom mirrors.

“I hear your polar bear cousins are losing their habitat daily,” Holden told him, smiling into the mirror. “You must be very grateful yours is made of spring and foam.”

If he hadn’t been able to get Holden to say yes to marrying him, he knew for certain that he would have chased him for the rest of his life. In such a heartaching scenarios, the intelligent thing would have been to leave L.A., go find somewhere else to make his life where he wouldn’t be at risk of seeing him even occasionally. But he never would have left. He would have been mostly miserable, seeing things he didn’t want to, knowing how beautiful they would have been together, yet he would have stayed and borne the emotional pain. Up to last May, he had already been doing it for three years. What difference would another three, or six or fifteen have made.

But instead of that life, he had this one. In which he had taken a pass at true courage and had been rewarded in a way that multiplied daily.

He knew he was on a high. He couldn’t make himself come down from it. Holden’s confession to him last night had sent him into the stratosphere, coming in second only to that night in October when Holden had finally let his barriers down. In the diffused white morning sunlight of Holden’s bedroom, it felt like he was in a dream. Holden was still smiling. Over there, by himself, like someone was running their hands over the spots that made him laugh. He suddenly realized that he had seen glimpses of this before, and stupidly had to think for a second before it came to him. This had been Holden in Johnston. A small peek into this person. And he had been too preoccupied to see.

A person who had now finished tweaking his tie and was walking back to the bed to him. 

Holden leaned down. Touched a finger to the tip of his nose. Like a parent. 

“Don’t spend all day in bed.”

He couldn’t even breathe.

Holden smiled, recognizing the look, and began backing away from the bed, telling him he’d see him later, and hurriedly left the bedroom. He listened to his exit, his big footsteps clodding rapid-fire down the staircase, down to the ground floor.

Then he lowered himself deeper into the bed, his eyes closed, and simply couldn’t believe his life.

*

And Kara, unfortunately for her, was not picking up on this new life that was now his.

Pretending he hadn’t correctly heard her very pointed question, what was he doing with the rest of his day, he lifted an eyebrow evasively.

“I’m gonna leave here and go sit with Mark Hawthorne for a minute,” he said. “At the association offices.”

“And then what?”

“Uh,” he said, evasively, then said nothing else in the hopes that she would catch on that he didn’t want to be having an interview.

“Sean, please get the Patek mockups yea or nay’d. That’s all I ask. I’ve had that ad exec breathing down by neck because their deadlines are approaching and you’re already slammed with wedding planning. Can I just know that you’re not letting something this important fall through the cracks? We’re doing very well this summer but I thought by now you’d have talked to Holden about them.”

Her words seemed so harsh in the context of the high he was still on. He creased his brow at her. 

“Where’s the love, Kara? I’m starting to think you don’t trust me anymore. You’re sounding more like Paula every day.” 

And thank God no more Paula fights for the rest of the summer, since they’d already gotten the jump on his June personal training/July training camp fight. Next time he was seeing her, it would be at his wedding.

“Show Holden tonight?”

“We’re in Miami this weekend. I’ll show him then. We’ll have plenty of time to talk about it.”

“Have _you_ made up your mind about them?”

“I’ve _looked_ at them...”

“And?”

“Well, they’re pretty intimate,” he said frankly. 

“You’re not backing out, are you?” she cried.

“No,” he said humanely, drawing out the word. “But I gotta think a little before putting something like that on display for the whole world to see.”

“Just go home after your meeting with Mark and spend some time on them. It’s the one photoshoot for the whole summer. Put your thoughts down so you’ll be ready to discuss it with Holden, that way it’ll actually get done over the weekend. Sean, yes?”

Already at the door, he winked at her. That threw her sufficiently and she abruptly stopped talking, staring almost dreadfully at him. He grinned at her, nodded and got out of there.

—

Mark Hawthorne, up from San Diego where he lived with his wife and two kids, had come to talk to brass about the team’s summer activities. Mark played defense and had the personality for it. Back when he’d needed to break through the social noise following his coming out, when coming out had made him and team publicity an awkward fit, Mark had shown that defensive strength and had stood up to the onslaught, insisting on his right to participate in summer fan events and not have his name and image erased from the pubic eye. Even up to his impromptu foundation announcement, Mark had been there doing his job as team rep. He’d forever be grateful to the guy.

Thankfully, this time they were meeting over much more pleasing circumstance, organizing the team’s charity golf tournament. Taking lead on it had been his way to give back to the team for its support.

They met not having seen each other since the season ended. Mark looked good, rested and in happy spirits, and when he told him as much as they shook hands, Mark grinned and told him it could only be attributed to one thing. His daughter had started talking.

“Already?” he asked in surprise, taking a seat at the conference table.

Mark nodded, pulling out his phone to show him pictures. “It’s been nonstop entertainment ever since.”

He nodded his understanding, grinning at the Afro-puffed cutie pie in the pictures, recalling how ridiculously excited he’d been when Deena had started chirping “Shahn” at every other sentence. She’d call him as soon as she learned how, saying the funniest, craziest things over the phone. He knew fully how your baby starting to talk made the most mundane things seem magical.

Mark smiled at him. “I _did_ hear you say that wanting kids was part of your reasons for coming out of the closet, right?”

“It sure was.”

“Well, get to it, Jackson. It’s hard work, but until we get to the Super Bowl, fatherhood is the best damned thing I’ve ever experienced.”

He nodded, but high or no, didn’t let his thoughts get too far. He wasn’t that high. Surviving the summer and getting Holden to the altar with his sanity intact would be accomplishment enough. Offspring conversation, knowing Holden’s aversion, was madness for a whole other offseason.

Mark glanced at the folder he’d opened on the table. “This it?” he asked, turning it toward him.

While Mark looked through the names of confirmed philanthropists and celebrities, partly the reason he’d gone to Kara’s that morning, he tapped his fingers on the table and thought a little about the circumstances leading up to his coming out. The pressure Holden had inadvertently put on him until he’d hardly recognized himself anymore. The alternate world he could still be living in right now, pretending to not have a love life. Falling in and out of that love every few months. Now all of that was gone. Replaced by his new, perfect life.

“Outstanding,” Mark said, finished reading. Mark turned to him. “And the venue?”

Relaying Larry Nevins’s proposal, of locating the event somewhere over the top and that way raising a ton of money for the team’s charity coffers, he smiled when Mark’s eyebrows disappeared into his hairline.

“Not everyone on the team’s gonna be able to afford that,” Mark said.

“Team’s comped. Everyone plus whomever we’re bringing.”

Mark blinked. “The whole roster?” and at his nod, “Holy shit.”

“That’s what I said.” He shrugged. “Rich people.”

“Yeah, look at you, son-in-law.” Mark glanced at the list again. “Jesus, Sean. You’re definitely marrying into the right family for this type of thing.” Then Mark laughed. “And there you were last summer, biggest worry being whether you’d be allowed to go _tailgating_ with _fans._ ”

He nodded, smiling. “A lot’s changed since then.”

“I’ll say.”

They talked some more, Mark confirming that he’d get the team’s management up to speed. Packing up, Mark glanced at him.

“What’re you up to for the rest of the day here in dreary old L.A.?”

He shook his head, grinning. Only someone living in perfect sun-and-coast San Diego could get away with that line. 

Then his smile turned into a smirk. What was he doing with the rest of his day? Kara wouldn’t be pleased.

—

He went swimming. Six days in New York and he could still feel the grime coating up his joints. He swam as far out into the ocean as he could without exhausting himself for the swim back. The afternoon sun shone like a giant flashlight in the cloudless blue sky and his only thought was that in two and a half months, he would be honeymooning somewhere he could do this all day.

While out in the water he encountered a mid-sized yacht with movie stars onboard, sunbathing.

He was practically dragged aboard, and knowing from experience that it was easier to let them have their way, he climb on board and was pleasantly surprised with freshly prepared, spice boosted vegan blends. 

Almost immediately, the Stern interview became the topic of conversation. The degree of intensity surprising him somewhat.

Approvals were high-fived, opinions on most of what he had said confidently delivered, and rather sexually charged queries opened. Including, oddly, suggestions for those times he could “see himself” being bisexual and looking for someone to spend time with.

“Just for a night,” the actress who had suggested it sang. “You ever feel yourself getting those twinges, never hesitate to call.”

“She’s not kidding about that.”

“Why would I be kidding?”

“Because we were hoping you’d be less obvious about it.”

“How’s Holden, by the way?”

The question popped out of nowhere and skidded across his heart.  
Having skipped a beat, he glanced at the actor who had spoken. His reaction had been small and invisible. But he had definitely felt it.

“He’s fine,” he said causally, swallowing juice a little too hard. Unexpectedly nervous. Suddenly feeling that the actor might say something that would make it lose its flavor. “You know him?”

“Ugh, I wish.” Then, “Say... I didn’t catch your Howard Stern answer to threesomes...”

They all laughed. Except for one of them, an actor whose movies he really liked, who was watching him seriously. The actor discreetly indicated with his head toward the cabin. He politely smiled and looked away.

And suddenly, oh hey, here were some recreational drugs.

“Stop that, you idiot!” someone cried. “He’ll drown swimming back!”

“Well, we could just _drop_ him off!”

“Do you not get the concept of swimming for exercise?”

“Besides,” someone else said, eyeing him. “I kinda got the sense that Sean is a bit of a prude. And I don’t mean that in an offensive way. Prudes can be a lot of fun. But you have to, you know, be more subtle about your approach.”

He took it all in stride. Even without having revealed some of himself on Stern’s show, the summer wasn’t set to normal . And the vegan blends were good. Soon he took his leave; got pawed and kissed on the mouth by one of the actresses, with some tongue, before finally being allowed to dive back into the water.

Transferring all his mental energy to returning to shore, he resumed where he had left off dreaming of his good life, actually feeling invigorated by the blend. Not to mention by the thought of finally being back in L.A. and being able to acquire some overdue, very special “drugs” of his own.

—

Elliot was kidding with this behavior. Behavior which had started because Craig had met Sean at that estate party in Beverly Hills but which had now become the launching pad for overall drama. Elliot’s so-called problem with Sean was as a result of that frustration. He now one hundred percent suspected that. Which he could concede made sense because Elliot didn’t actually know Sean. Didn’t understand the simple faith and love it had taken for Sean to still be here with him. How profound that was. It was easy to come in at the end and say Sean was entitled or ungrateful. He frankly didn’t even mind the misconception, but it was absurd for Elliot to refuse to hear any explanations after his sweeping pronouncements. Elliot knew better than to be doing this. 

And, of course he would introduce him to Sean. He was his best man. But why was Elliot forgetting that this entire process, from the day his mother had sent out his wedding invitations without his knowledge, had been a mined field. He never gave Elliot legal advice and Elliot never gave him advice on real estate market trends. But suddenly Elliot wanted to give him both attitude and approach on how to handle Sean? For God’s sake, couldn’t Elliot just call and be angry at him like a normal friend?

Sitting at his office sofa, looking over analyst reports on the one hand and proofing Soirée’s catalogue of subcontractors—wedding photographers, classical musicians, caterers— he had selected on the other, he scrolled down to Elliot’s name in his recent calls list. He tapped his number. It buzzed and went to voicemail of course.

“Elliot, listen to me,” he said firmly into the phone. “A couple months ago I was asking you to please remind me that I’d agreed to let Sean take the lead with my parents. You know how bad it got. You were there. You weren’t sleeping through those truly awful days.” 

Then he remembered that he hadn’t actually informed Elliot about what had been happening during those awful days until just recently at Sofitel.

“Okay, yes I kept things from you then, but now you know the details. Elliot,” he said, lowering his voice, “you know more than Sean does about what happened with my dad on that boat. Even without Darren and every guy I’ve ever dated starting to act crazy, I’m trying at each step to manage things as best I can and no, I’m not going to be perfect with it. _With_ Darren and my exes acting crazy, I need you to help me figure things out. You need to just call and stop with this assholish silent treatment.”

He ended the call, then dropped his phone beside him on the sofa and ran a hand through his hair. 

Sometime around noon, he got a reply.

_Back off, Holden, I have every right to be pissed! I’ve been patient with you from the day you revealed you were engaged to a guy none of us knew you even knew personally. I never judged you. And back off TWICE because the next time you need a shoulder to nearly vomit on, it’ll still be mine! So if I’m having a fucking moment of completely earned anger, you need to just accept it and stop trying to dictate the conditions. I’ll call when I fucking call!_

Annoyed beyond words, he spent the next almost full minute looking for the large kitchen knife icon to send. When he couldn’t find it, and feeling somewhat chastened after a full minute of searching, he breathed, held his phone, then tapped out a reply that just said _“Fine.”_

*

Still high, he coasted along the Pacific toward Santa Monica. His day had been exactly what it should be, and his intention was to extend it all the way to midnight if he could keep Holden up that long. In spite of Kara’s angst, he’d definitely get some work done this afternoon while Holden was at work. But before that he had some very important business to take care off. 

Pulling off the highway at Ocean Ave, he was soon turning onto 3rd Street and looking for a metered spot near Sur La Table, his destination. There to pick up ingredients for cupcakes he intended on baking Holden that evening. Game winning touchdowns were always, always to be celebrated. And last night had been one hell of a surprise win. That touchdown had thrown itself, as his quarterback coach would jokingly say, whenever someone threw a pin drop. It was definitely a sugar day.  
Next door to the bakery was a flower shop he’d be stopping at once the bakery items were paid for and in his Navigator. On a whim, though, he decided to enter and get surrounded by the beauty of it for a second. Not long after, however, he had to turn around and leave when he had been standing there grinning so hard at the flowers that he was making the shop attendants start to laugh. He glanced at them.

“I’ll be back in a sec,” he said, and went back out into the street. Laughing, he pushed into the bakery.  
Forty-five minutes later, his complete loot in the passenger seat, including a clutch of pink sweet peas whose scent was doing a fine job of maintaining a heavenly mood, he headed back to the highway and for the Westside. Soon he was turning onto the drive of Holden’s building, raising a hand in passing at the underground attendants. He then coasted toward Holden’s assigned parking spots—only to arrive and have all sweet thoughts burned right off him at the sight awaiting.

He glanced around the parking garage for a second, wondering whether he’d somehow entered from the wrong direction and wasn’t in fact at Holden’s penthouse’s parking spaces.

Holden had four spots assigned, Holden’s and three guest spots. He’d never been particular about which he took besides knowing that the nearest to the elevator was Holden’s and so he never used it. 

At that moment, however, there was a sleek black sports car occupying Holden’s parking space.

He slowed his Navigator until he came to a full stop a few yards from the sports car. And sat there staring at it.

It didn’t belong to Alastair or Cecelia, who would have informed them before stopping by anyway. And after very long, out of body moments, it occurred to him that he was staring so completely because in four years of on and off visiting, he had never seen another car occupying any of the visitor spaces, much less Holden’s.

His heart thudded in his ears.

And before he could stop himself, he had the thought. That despite years of dread, he had never experienced this moment.

And yet he had. Repeatedly. In his most vulnerable moments he had feared it so deeply, imagined it so vividly, that it took no effort at all to believe what he was seeing.  
To accept that his luck had simply run out.

His breath a solid object in his chest, he closed his eyes for a moment. He was overreacting. But for long, painful moments he was unable to stop it, while the worst memories in the world inundated him.

And then he opened his eyes. Took a breath.

One hand on the wheel, he tightened his grip until slowly, consciously, he came back to reality.

That could be anyone’s car. That was where he needed to start.

But whose? What kind of car did Darren Moran drive? And did Darren have the guts to do this? Or was it really someone else’s whose ass he hadn’t had the pleasure of thoroughly kicking?

He slipped his foot off the brake, meaning to park and go find out, only to slam it back down as an expensively suited man suddenly strode out of the elevators toward the sports car.

His thoughts went blank.

This couldn’t be happening.

Was Holden upstairs?

_No, of course not._ Holden was at the office. His car wasn’t even around. But Holden’s car not being around didn’t mean anything when it could be parked anywhere from valet to the airport.

His breath merely no longer a solid object, now a molten thing in his body, the stunned, quiet voice inside him nevertheless told him not to do this. To not turn into a raging asshole to anyone’s advantage.

Holden wasn’t around. So he just needed to see what was up. 

Just sit there and let the play come to him.

Now at the car, the man extracted a set of keys and beeped the car unlocked.

Key in hand, car unlocked, it was now clear it was all for show. Because with the car ready for his entry, the man didn’t enter. Instead he simply turned his head and looked at him.

And a slow, very fake smile formed across the man’s face.

This was really happening. 

Evidently coming to a decision, the man abandoned his pretense of entering the car and started toward him.

It was a defensive hit he knew was coming, and forced himself to relax. 

This play, he did know, and he wasn’t about to sit here and lose. 

Pushing the window button, he lowered the glass and placed his elbow on the frame. His other hand he kept on the lower part of the wheel, consciously, so he wouldn’t be tempted to use it in other, more satisfying ways. He waited.

The man walked right up to his driver side window and smiled at him.

“Sean Jackson,” he said, as if they were overdue for an encounter. “It’s good to finally meet you.”

At his silence, because he was simply staring at him, the man widened his fake smile.

“Joel Kresner. I’m a friend of Holden’s.”

He refused a single thought. Instead he looked from the guy to his sports car. Joel Kresner turned and looked at his car, and kept his gaze on it, as if wanting to give the impression that he was contemplating leaving it there.

“Oh that,” Kresner said, turning back to him, tipping him a small smile. “Old habits die hard, I guess.”

He brought his gaze back to Joel Kresner.

“Are you here to see Holden?”

“Holden? No, I don’t think he’s around. At the office, I’d imagine.”

Now his eyes hardened on Kresner.

And just like that, the fakeness vanished and he was being scrutinized with less affectation and more open acknowledgement of their contest. Joel Kresner’s eyes dropped to his left hand, hanging inside window, and his gaze on his engagement ring was difficult to read only in the sense that he didn’t know whether Joel was more of the “motherfucker” or “cocksucker” insult type of guy.

Kresner then smiled. A smile of defeat.

“I’ll catch you later, Sean,” he said with realism now in his tone, sweeping a last look over him. “Nice interview, by the way.”

Kresner walked back to his sports car while he watched him, his head on fire. Kresner finally got in, spun the car out of Holden’s spot and floored it out of the garage.

Slowly, he released the air in his lungs, loosened his grip on the wheel. Just as slowly, he rolled into the spot next to Holden’s. He sat for a minute. Then he reached across to the passenger seat and picked up his shopping before getting out of the car.

—

At 4pm on a workday, what he fully expected to get on his phone were romantic texts and dopey voicemails from a recently returned and very happy Sean Jackson.

What he got instead were several missed calls from his building manager.

The missed called from Warren came while he was in meetings, and with a followup text waiting, he would have thought the building was on fire or something. Instead he was reading a text about a “non-urgent matter regarding your guest” and to please called asap. Even re-reading, he didn’t know what to make of a _non-urgency._  
And when he got a minute and called, it was hard to believe that he wasn’t hearing something that simply had to be a mistake.

—

“In here please, Mr. Wilson,” Warren said, waving him entry into the management office. “Please have a seat.”

He didn’t. Warren’s office, a place he’d been in only a handful of times, was decorated to fit its function: confident but unobtrusive. The way the manager had always presented himself. 

But Warren at the moment looked like he’d spent the last hour wiping sweat from his face. And since his own tension was probably fairly evident, Warren wasted no time in returning to his desk and tapping on a propped iPad. Wall-mounted flatscreens flickered on and suddenly he was looking at CCTV footage from the garage cameras. Footage from that morning.

Seeing but not believing.

“We’ve spoken with the owner Mr. Kresner was visiting,” Warren said nervously. “As well as with Mr. Kresner himself and we have assurances from both, Mr. Wilson, that this will not happen again.”

Somehow, he was able to shift his eyes from the monitors back to Warren. 

“It can’t,” he said simply.

“Yes, Mr. Wilson.”

In a daze, he walked out of Warren’s office and back into the lobby, his mind on lockdown.

What the hell was about to happen upstairs?

Panic and admonitions to stay calm had long turned his thoughts rigid so that his attempts to kickstart problem solving repeatedly sputtered and painfully died. Sean had sounded completely even and neutral when Sean had called, telling him not to come home and not interrupt his workday because it wasn’t a big deal. That the manager had taken care of it. He’d been hurrying down to his car while Sean had been speaking.

Now at the elevators, hand hovering over the keypad, he tired to make himself think clearly. Had there been anger in Sean’s voice? Had he missed it from being too stunned to detect it? That Sean would be angry was even the point. It was how he was going to go up there and diffuse both their conditions, whatever Sean’s might be. If _he_ was having a hard time believing what he had just seen, he couldn’t imagine what Sean was going through. 

How could this be their first interaction following their beautiful morning?

How could it be their first real test following that Stern interview in which Sean had all but spelled out his position on this particular subject matter: that when it came to former partners and lovers, he wanted neither to know nor see.

—

Coming up from the garage and before entering Holden’s condo, the building manager had appeared and had begun apologizing profusely. Following which, his request that Holden not be called had been met with an explanation that informing the owner was policy.

So, no surprise, despite his having called to let Holden know that their wedding wasn’t off or anything, Holden was soon standing in the penthouse foyer staring across the living room at him. Looking a lot like a well-dressed deer in headlights. A pearly pool of afternoon sunlight was pouring from the skylight above, among the few things he liked about this place. It looked spectacular. And standing in it, Holden looked like a dream. The effect of which was shattered by a very familiar expression of fear in his motionless blue eyes.

He trailed his fingers across his laptop trackpad. _Fuck._ This was his fault. This overreaction and default to fear. His walkout in January had been an emotional nightmare for both of them that had caused a fright response in Holden. He couldn’t deny or ignore that.

Where the hell was the delete button on moments like this. On his whole damn behavior from November until January.

And when he looked up and saw Holden tense enough to blurt something that would wreck both their days, he pushed the side table and stood up.

Walking over, he saw Holden’s eyes flying all over his face, then over his shoulder into the living room as if searching for evidence of what he might have been up to. Perhaps googling for how not to yell at your partner when their past had once again overstepped in your relationship, this time on the worst of all days. He knew Holden well enough to know that look. But he hadn’t been doing that.

Reaching him, he took his hand, and Holden lowered his head shut his eyes tight.

His heart melted at the sight. He would one day simply die of love over this guy. Holden had really become a different person because of him. If he was ever in doubt, here was proof again. Once upon a time this would have been a very bad experience for him. There would have likely been a lack of empathy on Holden’s part, a shrug and a dismissive attitude to the seriousness of the situation. Or worse, outright anger that his private life was up for criticism.

It was possible to love someone and treat them callously. He had lived that fear-based life. But here was evidence that those days were gone. So no amount of frustration would ever make him fuck it up. He’d lock himself in his house and arrange for his own supply of Kibble before he’d let that happen again.

He laced their fingers together. Holden didn’t open his eyes, didn’t look at him.

“Sean— Sean- I—”

He lifted Holden’s hand, kissed his engagement ring. Then he wrapped Holden’s arm around his neck. Then held him, and kissed him on the mouth. Softly kissing first his upper lip, then his lower one. Brushed them with his own. He kept his eyes open, watching Holden consciously checking his own responses, his fingers stoically out of hair.

“Sean—”

“Don’t, sweetheart. Today was perfect.”

Head down, Holden pulled his arms from around him, slid them down until his grip on his arms were biting.

“Don’t push me away, Sean.”

“No one is pushing anyone away. I promise you that.”

Holden still didn’t look at him. Assuring him that what they were saying to each other was words. Actions showed more. They each had a cross to bear here. He knew what Holden was thinking about his own history, and it was all the more reason he knew he had to stay on course. No rehab went perfectly smoothly, especially so soon after a crisis. This had been a test. He was going to make sure they both passed it.

“You know what I’m doing back there?” he asked him, titling his head toward the living room, even though Holden was still refusing to look at him. “I’m working. It’s this thing some of us have to do. I know you’d love to, but I really can’t spend all day having fun with you. So you gotta get back to the office, Wilson. But tonight, I promise.”

Holden didn’t react. For long heartbeats, they stood holding each other, rejecting each other’s olive branches apparently, waiting to see which version of their lives would win out. Then he took control of that too and pulled away a little, reaching behind Holden for the door handle. 

He opened the door and very gently, pushed until Holden began to move. Not stopping until Holden was standing on the other side of the big white door, staring at him in a shaken, openly frightened way.

It was a very un-Holden like look, yet at the same time, pure Holden. It strangely brought a smile to him.

“Sean— I— I told Anne and Allison that if you ever ran away again and showed back up again in Johnston, that they weren’t allowed to keep you.”  
Door in hand, which he’d been about to shut, he stopped and stared at Holden.  
“What?”

“You heard me,” Holden said softly, eyes on him.

Well, he had, but... maybe not.

“I told them that they were to send you right back to me. Now I’m gonna go back to the office, and I’m not going to be wondering what’ll be happening in there when I’m gone.”

“I’m gonna be working on wedding stuff. And my offseason schedule. And— _run away?_ I didn’t run away, like I’m a teenager or something. And— they’re not allowed to _keep_ me?”

“Call it whatever you want. I just had to tell you.” Holden paused momentarily, looked no less panicked. “And— if there’s something you’re feeling, please, please just tell me, Sean. Because I won’t hesitate to call up Davey and inform him that you’re not keeping to your side of your agreement with him.”

Now he was just hearing things. Letting go of the door, he just stood in the doorway. “What’d— what?”

“You heard me. Davey told me you agreed that you’d face whatever side of our relationship, no matter how uncomfortable it was. Including this, Sean. _Especially_ this. He told me he’d had some tough going with Michelle himself over his own past behavior but that what saved them was that he never ran away from her.”

He shook his head in total incomprehension. “What the fuck is he talking about. I had to put him up every time he ran away from her.”

“Technically she kicked him out each time. He just had to find somewhere to hide until he could get himself back together and go talk to her. Remember?”

His eyebrows went up. “Do _you_ remember?”

Holden gave him a frustrated look. “You get my point.”

“When did you and Davey about this?” he asked firmly.

“When I was there this last time.”

He was gripped with a sudden tension. Meeting Holden’s eyes, he asked, “Did he come up to your hotel room?”

“I stayed with your parents.”

He blinked a few times, his tension retreating as fast as it had come. 

And he was pretty sure that it was only because he was looking at Holden that Holden didn’t roll his eyes.

He dropped his head and took a breath. This was Holden’s way of dealing. Startling as it could be, it contained Holden’s deepest concerns, and it was better, much more familiar, than the inability to express himself that had dogged Holden for the last few months. No matter how jarring, this he could deal with.

“Will you please tell me you understand what I’m saying?” Holden quietly said.  
He reached for him and hooked his fingers into his vest pocket, pulling him back toward him. “Not only do I understand, I’m charging you extra for it.”

*


	3. Chapter 3

About an hour after he got into work the following morning, he had managed to proof Soirée’s catalogue of subcontractors. It was in a PDF he had to email back, and he was just finishing up sending when a quiet knock came on his door. He called to come in and Craig opened the door and stood there with an eyebrow arched at him. 

“Was your building flooded, or…” 

He was at his desk. He’d spent the morning alternately looking at the unread in his Apple Mail inbox and striving to get the Soirée work done. Last night, Sean had seemed perfectly normal, his usual grinning, teasing self. Yet he had closely analyzed Sean’s actions. And he had come up with nothing except that if Sean was upset, Sean didn’t want him to see it. Didn’t want certain aspects of their past at all and was prepared to simply go on as if it never happened. Just erased. 

He liked the idea. Liked it so much he had gone along with Sean. It had permitted him to enjoy his newfound state of near perfect bliss, to enjoy Sean’s second day back, the terrifyingly delicious coconut cupcakes Sean had made him, and to smile with all his heart at the froth of soft pink, sweet smelling flowers his man of romance had brought him.

But Craig was now standing in his office doorway. And Craig only too happily represented the hard, shining reality that was their— _his—_ former life. 

With Craig standing there, he suddenly couldn’t pretend that Sean hadn’t just been challenged by one of his ex lovers.

He looked at Craig. Craig looked back at him, then he came inside, closed the door behind him.

—

Craig listened without speaking. Just stared through his glass walls at traffic on Santa Monica Boulevard, hands shoved in his pockets. He had left his chair and was now sitting on the edge of his desk.

He had started with Joel, whom Craig knew, but he went back to Darren and Monday night. Then even farther back to Eddie’s innocuous but badly-timed reach-out at La Rosa. And finally to the emails and Facebook messages. Craig already knew about the texts following the Howard Stern interview.

Finishing, Craig said nothing. Before beginning to relay some information of his own. The night of Stern’s interview, Craig told him, he’d also received a text on his iPhone—Craig’s black book—from a mutual friend of theirs in New York. He remembered it. The message Craig had checked and had looked so interested in right before the show. The friend, having seeing the East Coast airing, had texted that Sean had set up “quite the dare” for “interested parties.” And then had asked whether Holden really had just given Sean an engagement ring after a year of being engaged, and if so, where was the lottery so he too could throw in his numbers and try his chances, haha.

Speechless, he started at Craig. Craig wasn’t looking at him. And then Craig did.

“It’s good you’ve started telling your friends what’s going on with you, Holden.”

He lowered his gaze. Stared at his engagement ring. And had to wonder whether Elliot had complained from Monday night, or whether Craig too had simply reached the limits of his own patience.

Slowly rotating his engagement ring, he was suddenly remembering how Craig had reacted upon first seeing it. Like he’d been hit over the head. Not to mention his own total freakout. It had been like having his feet kicked out from under him. Typical of the fairy tales to nicely call it being swept off your feet. 

It had only been Craig telling Elliot and Petey, and all three of them choosing to let him have his privacy and decide when to open up about it, that had saved him from being stressed with difficult questions.

His friends were his family. It had taken not one but two stays in Johnston to realize that. They had unfailingly been with him when having an engagement ring on his finger had seem as likely as any of them building a spaceship and flying to Mars. They hadn’t judged, hadn’t told him he was crazy or didn’t know what he was doing, like his parents had. As Elliot had not needed to remind him, they had given him nothing but complete support.

But being with Sean’s family in Johnston and being in L.A. were two very different things. In Johnston he was brimming with confidence. In L.A. he choked with fear, and with good reason. Sean wasn’t going to walk away from him. He’d made sure of that. 

But, hardly believing it, he was suddenly recalling something his father used to say. That there were many ways to poison a relationship, even with both partners sharing a bed. And he had seen that in the lives of his parents, in the lives of pretty much every married couple he had known growing up. 

What guarantee, then, did he have that even with his friends backing him, he and Sean would come out of it intact? 

Maybe they could just handle Joel or whomever else—

“It’s not just Joel, of course,” Craig said. “Perception is that your family owns Sean. I know it’s not what you want to hear but you’ve never shied from the truth. The fear you rightly have is that people won’t respect your marriage because of it. Well, you’re not wrong there. Sorry to say. You know what the men are like in our world. Hell, we are those men.”

For long moments Craig didn’t speak. Then he said, “You made a choice with Sean that you had every right to make. You know I’ll always respect you for that. But Petey’s right. Sean woke the beast with that Stern interview. Anyone could smell the challenge a mile away. And now you need to get ready to go to bat.”

“For him?” he asked lifelessly.

“For yourself, Holden.”

He raised his gaze to Craig.

“These guys aren’t out for Sean though it may look that way. That text from Hoy said it all. Like it or not, it’s about you. Mainly because Sean’s been MIA in your social life from day one, you’ve put yourself in a position of needing to convince people that the relationship is real. Even Petey’s worried it’s fake, or that something is terribly wrong and you’re not saying.”

“Petey said that?”

“In a moment of grand self-pity, yes.” Craig smiled wryly. “You’ve never seen a prettier angry face.” 

“Why the hell would I fake something like this?”

“It’s not about that, you know it. It’s whether he really has you. Or whether he’s just another ex in the making, center stage now but next in line to be sorted out by Alastair.”

He swallowed his emotions that were strongly beginning to taste like anger.

“Don’t worry about Joel,” Craig said. “You don’t need to give him your attention. That’s all he wants. We’ll take care of it.”

And ultimately his anger boiled down to one thing.

“Why do I have to convince anyone that it’s real? Whose business is it? It’s not a competition and I’m not a prize to be won.”

“That’s exactly what it is. You know very well it’s always been the interest of many men we know what or who you’re doing. Enjoy traveling anonymously and meeting people all you want, but you’re Alastair Wilson’s son. Straight women would love to marry you. People like competition, chief. And Sean being famous doesn’t mean they back down. It absolutely is a contest. And like it or not, you’re the ultimate prize this summer.”

He tamped his frustration, looked away.

Craig looked straight at him. “Talk to Petey. He’s got some ideas.”

Yeah. And where the hell was Elliot.

*

_Elementals,_ in Beverly Hills, was the kind of place he got more excited about than a person probably should. 

If there was a place where essential oils died and went to heaven, where their souls resided in eternal bliss among people who loved them, this was it.

While Skyping with Allison in New York, he’d lingered a little too long on thoughts of oils for his honeymoon and had worked himself into a slight sexual lather that had managed to sustain for a week. Now here, he planned on shopping for the full list of recommended oils. His own style of “drugs.” He was also considering deploying one or two before the honeymoon as a test run, see what effect they had on Holden. Although an argument could be made to save the full experience for the honeymoon, he wouldn’t be enjoying his offseason to the fullest, now would he? And where was the fun in that.

Joel Kresner was fast becoming a distant memory. He could have laughed in the guy’s face over his absurd attempt to throw a wrench in their relationship, if he even cared enough to laugh in his face. What mattered was that Holden seemed as willing to let it go. That spelled a simple win for both of them.

Inside the store, the atmosphere was quiet; soft spa tones—what Holden brazenly called “distracting gonging sounds”—enveloping him as he entered. He was acquainted with the owners, a native California Cantonese woman and her East Coast transplant partner who’d been in Beverly Hills “since the days of Redford and Newman,” as they liked to tell their customers.

The partner, once upon a time a New Englander and a correspondingly die-hard Patriots fan, was currently busy behind the counter. He raised a hand in greeting, and the old man broke into an exclamation on seeing him. Leaving a wide-eyed sales clerk staring in his direction, the old man hurried around the counter.

“Sean Jackson!” he cried, grasping his shoulders, reminding him a little of his dad when uncontrollably excited. “What an awesome surprise!”

“How’s it goin’, Mr. E?” he asked, smiling as the nickname got him a laugh. Their last names were Tam and Staller—they had never married, claiming marriage would make them kill each other—but he’d long since taken to calling them Mrs. and Mr. Essentials, to their continued delight.

“Very good, Sean, very good indeed. So much going on since we last saw you. A boyfriend! A wedding! Such interesting times we live in.”

“That’s definitely one way to look at it.”

Mr. E laughed, then shook his shoulder. “Did you say hello to Brady for me?”

“I did, actually,” he said, noting that other patrons were now starting to appear at the end of aisles and peeking toward them. “He said he’ll stop by whenever he’s in town. You should hold him to that on Twitter.”

“Really? Oh, I will, I will,” Mr. E said, before sweeping an arm at the store. “What are we getting you this afternoon?”

“Well,” he began, dipping into his jeans for his handwritten list and handing it over. He couldn’t help grinning as Mr. E gave him an exaggerated shocked look.

“Good choices,” Mr. E said warmly, whipping the small square of paper like a winning lottery ticket. “I’ll have to root around for some of these, but take a look around while I do.”

Full of self-satisfaction, he picked up a basket and strolled farther into the shop. While passing he noticed the sales clerk holding up her phone and tapping at it. Fine, as long as she didn’t post online saying he was there buying quarts of  _dick oil,_  as Davey referred to sensual oils. He didn’t need more fucked up TMZ headlines this summer. Basket in hand, he entered an aisle and took his time checking out the shelves. 

Some distance in, he crossed paths with a male-female couple who smiled and eyed him together in a way that was brand new to him. That morning with the celebrities was more or less typical, but unless he was mistaken, here was a heterosexual couple giving him the same look. Unable to resist, he glanced at them. The woman excitedly met his eyes and softly said hello. He returned her greeting while the guy gave him a clear cut visual inspection. 

“We loved your Howard Stern interview,” she said quietly. 

He nodded, his surprise well hidden.

The couple walked on, looking over their shoulder and not hiding their spike in interest as he bent to a lower shelf and picked up a bottle of Roman rose essence. As soon as they were gone, he shook his head, then read the label:

_Seal in your most beautiful emotional states… Awaken your desires… Heal your deepest passions…_

It went on like that, each sentence more flowery than the last, but damn if he wasn’t sold. Mr. E could blend him the serious stuff but a little something basic never hurt. And figuring his and his sweetheart’s deepest passions did need some patching up to, uh, inflate again, he grabbed a second bottle.

As far away as his thoughts were, he didn’t hear for some time that someone was calling his name. He turned and looked to his right, and had no response for the guy standing a few feet away staring at him. Very cautiously staring at him.

Under normal circumstances he’d just say hello, but this didn’t seem like a nervous fan moment. Returning the stare, he waited to see what.

“Hi, Sean,” the guy said, gently. Like someone about to coax a fearful animal. “Sorry to approach you like this. I’m a friend of Holden’s.”

His stomach churned and held itself in a tightened knot.

This couldn’t be happening. What the hell was happening to them in L.A.?

“We’ve met before.”

He returned his attention to the shelf, picked up another bottle. Yeah, so they had. He didn’t recall where. But he’d also seen him in pictures.

In those Getty Images from what seemed like a lifetime ago but which were never far from his mind. Those photos of Holden at events last fall surrounded by his fellow rich society boys and glowing with happiness. Thrilled with his life even while he’d been struggling with fear of things he couldn’t control. The photos had been from an early part of the season and hadn’t reflected Holden’s later mental state, but even then he hated recalling the judgement he’d unfairly passed on them. Even thinking about it felt like betraying Holden all over again. 

But betrayal or no, those nauseating feelings at the time had been real, and felt just as real now. This guy had been in those pictures.

His name was Elliot.

“We met at Holden’s place, back in January.”

So they had.

Another moment passed, before he glanced at him and quietly said, “Hi.”

“This is unconventional, I know, but I overheard you and Mr. Staller and thought I’d introduce myself. Properly, I mean. I’m Elliot, as I’m sure you know. I’m also Holden’s best man your wedding. As I’m sure you also know.”

Glancing at Elliot, he tried not to see Joel Kresner. Or Darren Moran.

So he stopped looking at him.

For want of anything at all to say, he said, “Nice to meet you.”  
And hoping Elliot would take a hint and be on his way, he returned to reading the bottle in his hand.

But to his right, Elliot didn’t move.

He didn’t want to do this. Hadn’t come here for this. Skated yesterday only to run headlong into this? No thanks. He’d known this was Holden’s best man but had put it out of his mind, because in all those Soirée chapters on wedding planning advice it didn’t say he had to become friends with his groom’s wedding party. As much as he loved Holden, he didn’t mean to become a part of his circle of friends. Or do whatever they did as friends. He didn’t want to know.

He glanced again at Elliot. His gaze connected with a pair of observant brown eyes, holding their own behind lashes that could have sold mascara. There was a focus to Elliot’s eyes as Elliot watched him, which he didn’t care to know about.

Elliot pointed to the space next to him like it was there and empty for a reason.   
“May I?”

Without waiting for an answer, Elliot stepped closer…and kicked up a wall of defense inside him that caught him off guard. A million thoughts suddenly flocked wildly through his head, each carrying more tension than the last. Was “friend” in Holden’s world a euphemism for something else? L.A.’s gay scene wasn’t his own. Hell, he didn’t have a gay “scene,” partly the reason he never felt that he had his footing around them. As far as these types were concerned, he was some clueless farm boy stepping in on their territory. So was this some kind of attempt to send him a message much more subtle than Joel Kresner’s? 

Not wanting to detect so much as a twitch of body language from Elliot and pick up on something he wasn’t prepared to deal with, he kept his gaze resolutely on the bottle.

And then he thought, _Fuck this,_ and turned and looked directly at Elliot.

Elliot was watching him. A kind of relaxed, fascinated stare. Like he was being absorbed.

“I am aware of how this looks,” Elliot said evenly. “Not the most kosher.”

He had a style of speaking he recognized as a professional’s. Use of pre-selected words designed for persuasive arguments. The way his lawyers spoke.

“I just wanted to introduce myself,” Elliot continued. “To say that… this is a moment I really have been looking forward to. And also that… I wanted to say that I care very deeply about Holden. For his well being, and for really, everything about him. I love and respect him very much and I’m thrilled at how much he loves you. His happiness means a lot to me.”

Long seconds passed of him saying nothing, just mentally urging Mr. E along, and of Elliot’s persistent gaze eating up the silence. He’d stopped looking at him while Elliot was speaking. 

Now he glanced at him again and said, “Thanks.”

More silence. 

Then Elliot politely said, “It’s good to meet you, Sean. I’m sure we’ll be seeing again.”

Elliot then turned, and was soon gone from the aisle.

He didn’t watch him go. But no longer able to focus, he put the bottle back and left the aisle. Without checking to see whether Elliot was still in the store, he went to the front counter just in time for Mr. E to appear from the back room, a basket of small clinking bottles on his arm.

—

A half hour after his encounter with Holden’s best friend, he was still sitting in his Navigator. At the corner of Wilshire Boulevard and Beverly Glen, staring across at the intersection towards Holden’s building. That had not gone well. 

He’d felt more threatened by Holden’s best friend than a grasping ex lover. Why would that happen? 

He focused on his discomfort and kept returning to just one thing. Last summer in Bel Air, when he had learned firsthand what Holden had seemed to so adamantly need him to know that morning in Paula’s backyard. About the cold heartedness of his world. After last summer he knew too well how deeply the people closest to Holden could hurt them both. Maybe this was where his discomfort was coming from. As reluctant as Holden had been to take him up to see his parents, Holden had flat out locked all doors to his social world. Yet here he was, meeting them one by one.

Of course he didn’t think Holden had ever had a romantic relationship with his best friend, and soon to be his best man at their wedding. That had just been his insecurities talking. And hadn’t he been the one to open this door with his Stern interview. All because of that ridiculous TMZ headline with its two thousand comments, none of which he had read. As well as Cecelia’s publicity moves to control his image, he now admitted to himself. That had irritated him and he could admit that now. 

And none of which was Holden’s fault.

He took a giant, deep breath. Fuck, what was he doing? Meeting with Joel Kresner had fucked with his head and he needed to stop this. Pulling the wheel, he pulled back into traffic.

—

“I met your friend Elliot today.”

He’d spoken for a long time before Holden appeared to hear the words and looked across the living room at him.

It was early evening and Holden had been home maybe fifteen minutes. Leather brief dumped on the floor against the wall, Holden had been stuck by the big white doors scanning a slimmer version of the JP Morgan report that had been his world for over a month.

It took a long time of staring blankly at him before Holden simply asked, “What?”

“Your friend Elliot. I met him this afternoon in Beverly Hills.”

Still Holden continued staring at him. “What’d you mean, you met Elliot?”

“I mean I met him. Same store. He came up and introduced himself.”

Holden neither responded nor moved, so he returned his attention to what he was doing.

While in New York, he’d forwarded to Davey site links for wedding attire from the brochures Holden had given him. And Davey had done 90% of the work, replying within a couple days with top choices of tailors on London’s Savile Row. Davey thought it would be good to spend a long weekend in England tearing through the countryside in a Land Rover, while getting their tuxes out of the way as an aside. Davey had even included a link of his own to a two-day Land Rover performance driving course, complete with overnight camping. It was among the most ingenious ideas his dear brother had ever had.

Now while waiting for Holden to respond to his revelation, he pulled over the master tasklist and penciled in “London tailors” in the space reserved for his choice of boutiques. Tux colors were probably going to be a topic of raw debate, with Davey feeling that Holden’s idea of using colors was great and him feeling that black and white were good enough for all weddings. But that was a problem for when they were on ground and getting it done.

He finished and Holden still hadn’t made a sound, and when he looked up it was to find Holden’s gaze still on him, his expression frozen.

“What— what...did Elliot say to you?”

He shrugged as casually as he could. “He said he was a close friend of yours.” _And felt the need to imply that he loves you more than I do._ “We’d met before. Here.”

Holden slowly lowered the report but still seemed unable to compose a response.

He flipped the pages of his tasklist, put an asterisk on the page for rings, his next point of interest. Harry Winston had his attention so far. Engagement photographers was after that.

Since that afternoon he’d had time and distance to think more clearer about how he wanted to deal with this. And at each pass his answer had been the same. Holden had actually voiced that he had crossed a threshold with him. Were life perfect, he would have eloped with Holden yesterday and they would have spent the next two and a half months unspooling that feeling. But life wasn’t, and they were still in L.A. But he knew one thing for certain. Between him and Holden, this thing with the other men was over. So that whatever occurred, no matter who came up to him and said what, he wasn’t going to bring it home, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to lay it at this new phase Holden’s feet. That much he knew he could control. 

He glanced at Holden.

“Is he Persian?”

“Armenian,” Holden said on automatic.

He nodded, then held Holden’s gaze a little longer, to show that there were no problems, before returning to his tasklist.

His attention only flew up at the sound of Holden tripping over his brief and hitting hard against the wall. He was up and over the side table before he knew he’d done it, catching Holden hard in his arms halfway to a face-plant on the floor.

On his ass, back against the wall, Holden was safe in his arms., he stared down in shock at Holden. Heart tripping hard, almost as hard as Holden’s against his forearm, he tightened his arms around him.

“S-sweetheart—”

“I’m fine, I’m fine.”

Holden slowly sat up, away from him, massaging the shoulder he’d hit against the wall. Massaging, and not looking at him.

*

He didn’t bother trying to find the kitchen knife icon. He sent Elliot a text that if he didn’t call him immediately, they were no longer friends.

Elliot texted back saying he couldn’t talk just then but that he’d be getting an email about tux fitting dates before he and Sean left for Miami that weekend.

Like absolutely nothing else had happened.

It was Thursday morning, he was in his car idling before leaving for work while reading the reply. Basically, he’d texted for a callback as soon as he was out of his penthouse and in no danger of being overheard by Sean. At Elliot’s reply, he stared out his windshield at the valet stand across from his parking spot. Then he took a breath and shifted into gear.

He spent some minutes peeking casually into rooms looking for Craig when he got to the office before remembering that he could just call him. Craig quietly raised both eyebrows when he found him, in his office unsurprisingly, and nodded when he told him to try and reach Elliot asap.

By mid-morning, Elliot did call. Not him, not Craig, but his secretary Rachel, telling her to schedule all three of them for a lunch in.

*


	4. Chapter 4

This time Craig was on his sofa. Legs crossed, looking completely at ease, the slimmed down JP Morgan report he’d been silently reading since arriving lying open at his side.

“He knows it’s over between us,” he told Craig. “He knows I’m going to murder him and not care about what happens with the wedding. And promise me, if he tries to act like this is not a big deal, we’ll arrange to have his condo foreclosed.”

Craig didn’t respond, only looked up when Rachel finally intercommed.

“Mr. Manassian to see you, Mr. Wilson.”

He took a breath and met Craig’s eyes.

“You should hold off on the breakup text,” Craig said.

Not amused, he asked Rachel to have Elliot come in.

Elliot strolled in like they were there for a picnic in the park. An impression aided by the brown takeout bags he was holding, looking extremely pleased for someone both dishing and about to be the recipient of righteous anger. God knew he’d made a truly dedicated effort to cultivate his all night.

Completely unlike the night after Joel’s stunt, last night had been torture. Besides nearly accidentally killing himself because he couldn’t _believe_ Elliot, Sean had flat out refused to offer any additional information on his meeting with Elliot. Just kept shrugging and continuing to say nothing had happened, that they had just greeted each other. But had they? He was still trying to imagine what nonsense Joel might have said to Sean. Now Elliot had gone and added to the craziness.

And because Sean had very much not been kidding about making the most of the offseason, they had still been working on welcoming Sean back from New York. It wasn’t like he was doing anything sexually spectacular to Sean, but wondering whether Sean had started keeping things from him again had completely wrecked his concentration. All that without taking into account the internalized pressure he was already carrying around because Sean in offseason mode was a walking fetish magnet he was completely failing to contend with. The entire evening had been like trying to orgasm with a porcelain vase balanced on your chest.

He had been waiting all evening and the entire morning to be upset at Elliot. Instead Elliot was standing there with his back against the door, with takeout from Urth Cafe, leveling him a seriously intrigued look. That was beginning to unnerve him.

“You, Holden, are a very bad boy,” Elliot said softly.

Bewildered, he spread his hands.

“Not only is he even better looking in person,” Elliot continued, nearly purring. “Which I don’t know how I keep forgetting, but he _smells_ of you. To his fingertips, I sense. Now besides literally fucking it into him, how precisely does one get that to happen?”

A smile appeared on Craig’s lips. His attention supposedly on the report.

“And talk about a walking _sex_ bomb. You get hard just standing next to him. The _tension_ coming off that man. I should have approached with a harness and whip. Fuck _me._ ”

Craig’s smiled widened. He nodded at the takeout. “Hope the eats are right.”

“You’ll eat whatever’s in here please, Mr. Hollenthal,” Elliot said, still looking at him. “Today we are here to solve one of Holden’s most pressing personal problems.”

Holding on to every ounce of his anger, he glared at Elliot. Who just walked toward the center table and began depositing their food on it, around Craig’s legs. Then Elliot started over to his desk.

Leaning down, Elliot kissed him on the cheek. Not a little peck hello, but a deep smooch like they used to exchange when they were eighteen and still surprised by life. Elliot then returned to the center table and sat down, and began opening up takeout bags. Craig closed the report and sat forward and joined him.

Speechlessly, he watched his friends pull out grilled paninis and salads and turkey burgers like nothing strange was happening.

“Oh,” he said belligerently. “I take it you’re not mad at me anymore? Or at him?”

“I’m definitely not.”

Then nothing more.

“What the hell is wrong with you, Elliot? I can’t even begin to tell you how wrong things could have gone with you approaching him like that. You took a chance on something you don’t fully understand.”

Elliot shrugged. “What’s done is done.”

“ _Nothing’s_ done. What did you _say_ to him?”

“I told him we were no longer fucking and that he had nothing to worry about.”

Craig smiled at Elliot as if Elliot had suddenly become the most interesting person in the world.

“And what did he say to that?” Craig asked, playing along. “Did he believe you?”

“Who knows. He was so busy pretending I wasn’t standing there, I’m not even sure he heard me. I’ll have to send him a picture of Holden naked and tell him to check the date.”

Craig looked delighted. “You have naked pictures of Holden?”

“From college? Hell yeah. There might even be a couple from Stanford. Being in some myself, I could absolutely sell Sean on that story.”

“Craig,” he said sharply when Craig appeared about to ask a followup question. Possibly on how he and Elliot had ended up in naked pictures together.

Craig gave him an amused smile but withheld his questions.

“Can we get serious please?” he said to them both.

“Let’s,” Elliot said. “Because there’s much to discuss. I have to be perfectly honest with you, Holden. Despite _the little_ you spilled in the winter, I wasn’t quite ready for the closeup. I mean, I remember what it was like seeing him at your place, but when he _talks_ to you— Craig, why did you not say when you met him? Well, trust you.”

Craig smiled, evidently forgetting their unspoken agreement from moments ago.

“You’re in the mood for a hot glass of gossip, Mrs. Wilson,” Craig said to Elliot. “I hope you actually brought some with you, ‘cause all we have here are iced teas.”

“As a matter of fact, I did. Which is what I believe the future _Mrs. Jackson_ will be very interested in.”

Done arraying their lunch, Elliot looked across the office at him. “Come. Eat.”

He refused to move.

Sobering, Craig said, “The situation has become less conducive for Holden, Elliot, since the last time you two spoke.”

“Since you’ve been MIA,” he interjected.

“One of Holden’s exes challenged Sean in the parking garage at his residence. Joel Kresner,” Craig said slowly, enunciating the name, his gaze on Elliot. “You remember him, right?”

Elliot had stopped crooking his finger at him and was now staring at Craig.

“I’m sure you do,” Craig said. “Joel took Holden’s parking spot. In the hopes that Sean would see, I suppose. He got his wish.”

Elliot had started blinking. “What?”

When Craig only gave him a quick, confirming look, Elliot turned his stunned gaze to him.

Feeling vindicated, he attempted an annoyed stare, kind of failed, and sat back.

Joel had ultimately admitted that he’d wanted to run into Sean, but only to say hello. That piece of information had been told to him by the movie studio executive Joel had been there to see. A guy Joel had started seeing after he’d broken it off. At least, he hoped after. Joel had met the executive one night when they’d gone down together for a Haagen-Dazs, on one of his midnight snack runs, while the executive had just been coming home from work. He remembered making the introductions.

Explaining what Joel had done, the executive had been sincerely apologetic, upset and repeating incomprehension at Joel’s need to park where he had even if meeting Sean had been the goal. He’d said nothing, silently wishing him luck because he obviously didn’t understand Joel’s exploitative style.

“W-when did this happen?” Elliot sputtered.

“Couple days ago,” Craig said.

“And what— what the hell did Joel say to Sean?”

“Oh, listen to you,” he pointed out in frustration. “I have no idea. I saw the CCTV and they definitely exchanged words, but— but the problem is that Sean won’t say what.”

Craig looked at him. “Why is that?”

He had no answer.

Well, he did. But watching them staring at him, saying it felt intensely uncomfortable. Who could have possibly foreseen that so many past, _private,_ acts would one day be put on parade for the whole world to judge?

Elliot’s gaze had zeroed on him, as if sensing that he was hesitating at this late stage and ready to scalp him if that were the case.

“He— he has a serious problem with... you know, exes.”

“ _Your_ exes,” Elliot corrected.

After some hesitation, he nodded. “I’ve noticed that whenever he meets someone I once went out with he won’t share a word of their exchange. It’s like he’s waging this one-person war that demands total allegiance. As if repeating what that the other side said would be repeating propaganda. It’s why I want to know what you said to him, Elliot. It— it _matters_ because this is kind of what built up to him leaving all of a sudden for Iowa.”

“And I’ve been thinking about that,” Elliot said lightly. “About all of this, actually. So before we get back to Joel, let’s talk about it. You said Monday night that he can’t seem to cope with the thought of you having had so many priors before him, and with you not putting him on a pedestal these last four years. Is that a fair assessment?”

“No, it’s not a fair assessment,” he said adamantly. “Of course it’s not. I never said he was looking to be put on a pedestal, I never even implied it and you know it. So why are you saying it?”

“Because I’m feeling super fucking impatient right now and you need to listen. I got the rest of it right, though? About your exes?”

He nodded.

“Okay. So throw out what I concluded Monday night, Holden, because there is no way he could be reacting the way he does, the way he continues to react, based merely on the _thought_ of infidelity, past or future.”

“He’s worried you’ll cheat on him?” Craig asked in surprise.

“No,” he said firmly. “Of course not.”

Craig continued looking at him. Making him suspect he hadn’t spoken as firmly as it had sounded in his head.

Craig sent his look to Elliot, who returned an arched “see what I’m saying” look back.

“What’s your theory?” Craig asked.

“I think something actually happened.”

“Yes,” he said. “Something happened. For years. I treated him terribly for years.”

Elliot slowly shook his head.

“You think it’s something more?” Craig asked.

Elliot slowly nodded.

“He saw something,” Craig said.

Elliot’s nod deepened.

“Not possible,” he said.

Elliot picked up his sandwich, sat back and began eating.

He looked at both his friends.

“It’s not possible,” he repeated. Even though his mind had suddenly started trembling in place, strangely eager to go down a path it had never even before considered.

“Joel aside,” he insisted, “when would Sean have had any kind of encounter with any guy I dated? Besides Darren. And even with Darren, only because my mother insisted on acting like he was the last man alive. Besides that, where would Sean have met any of them? How would he even know I’d dated them?”

“Um, cocktails in Bel Air? But not that,” Elliot said. “Not something to do with your exes. Something to do with you. Sean has experienced something _you_ did that’s made the thoroughbred as skittish as a newborn foal.”

Craig gave Elliot a pained look. “Animal analogies. What’s tackier.”

Elliot observed his sandwich. “Food analogies?”

“Excuse me,” he said. “When Sean and I were broken up, we were broken up. I didn’t go over there and he didn’t come to my place. It’s not like he goes out to bars, hardly even to functions he’s invited to. When would he have had a chance to see me with someone else, and what exactly would he have seen? It wasn’t like I was making out with guys at the beaches in Malibu. Or in front of his house.”

“Maybe in front of yours?” Craig asked.

“Well, no. I’m not making out with guys in front of my building. And even if I were, what are you saying, he was spying on me?”

Both of his friends fell silent.

“That’s ridiculous,” he said.

“You think your prince is beyond that kind of behavior?” Elliot asked.

“Yes. As a matter of fact, I do.”

“Just because you can’t imagine doing it doesn’t mean he isn’t capable. We’ve all had our bad days. You said yourself at the reception Monday night that he had a major problem with you sleeping around before you settled down in his perfect love. Doubly obvious from that macho Howard Stern interview.”

“Fine, maybe. But one thing doesn’t build into the other.”

“Listen,” Elliot said, as if he hadn’t spoken. “Ordinarily I’d find it hot that he’s jealous of your exes. Purely in an academic way, you understand. Because, let’s face it, we can all pretend we don’t like angry sex, but, I mean. But I’m just saying that _he_ obviously doesn’t find it hot. It would explain his tension. H, he could barely look at me. It was like— I don’t know, like he was _embarrassed_ or something.”

“Still not adding up,” he said, absolutely ignoring his unease.

“Spying on you would definitely be cause for embarrassment. But seeing you with someone else on top of it?”

“I’m not buying it,” he repeated defiantly.

“What’s not to buy? It’s summer, he’s in town but you’re not in Malibu. You two are, your quote, taking a break. But he’s not feeling your need to go sow your wild oats, right? So he tries to see you at home and instead gets an eyeful of you entering Ten-Fifty with Joel Kresner or some other clone.”

Elliot paused and cocked him a look. “You don’t think that’s possible? You think it’s nonsense that he would want to see you when he don’t want to see him?”

Craig, eating his lunch, cut Elliot an incisive look. A look he couldn’t pretend to not see.

Nausea settled slightly in his stomach. He looked at both his friends.

“He wouldn’t spy on me,” he tried one last time.

“But would he try to reach out?” Craig asked.

“And in doing so, see something he wasn’t meant to,” Elliot finished.

“But even that seems… It’s just…”

“Not possible?” Elliot said. But his tone had become gentle. And Elliot was giving him a sympathetic look. “For a famous NFL quarterback in the closet and in love? Not possible to go a little crazy wanting what you can’t have?”

His heart squeezed until it was too small to hold his emotions.

He looked away.

Was this possible?

There was Sean in Anne’s kitchen, struggling to voice the problem that had sent him to to Iowa. To voice the depth of his shame over their past. And then in Markham’s office, Sean shamefaced to the point of being unable to look at him. All because, Markham had said, Sean had developed a defense mechanism against being hurt. He remembered every word with perfect recall.

But now he had to ask himself, why shame?

If you loved someone was it shame you felt at betrayal? Wasn’t it more like anger? Why would Sean feel shame over something _he’d_ done? Sean had explained it as stemming from him not being able to let go even when he’d felt rejected. That his shame had come from humiliation. But now the question that had simmered in his mind in Anne’s kitchen but which he hadn’t wanted to ask because he had just wanted that part to be over, furiously bubbled to the surface.

 _What_ humiliation?

Had Sean experienced something he absolutely wasn’t meant to? It wasn’t about parties in Bel Air. Sean had said his problems had come from their past. So had there been instances of Sean trying to reach out to him during their breakups and instead had seen him with someone? It seemed totally impossible. But then…what about phone calls? He’d once broken up with a private charter pilot because the pilot had thought it perfectly okay to answer his incoming calls. Even Elliot had been an irritated victim of that particular partner. Couldn’t Sean have as well?

Didn’t this make more sense? Sean’s surprisingly deep and abiding anger toward men even he barely remembered. How _personal_ it all seemed when at most it should have been— well, abstract, and definitely worthy of dismissal. Especially once Sean had gotten a commitment from him.

So…was this their underlying problem?

He was sitting at his desk with both feet on the floor, but slowly he was feeling as if he were on the deck of a boat. Unnerved by each rolling wave under his feet. And no Sean to hold on to this time. Eventually he was able to make the feeling stop, the spiraling pool of images and memories slow down.

All he was left with was a distressing pressure in his chest. Why couldn’t this one sin of his end? Why did it keep leaving him surprises along the way? And if Sean refused to name the problem and say what truly happened, then how could he solve it? Would Sean tell even Davey? Sean wasn’t going to run away. But there were many ways to poison a relationship.

Elliot set down the perspiring cup of something he’d been sipping from.

“Now I’m starting to feel for him.”

“Oh, what, you don’t think he’s an ungrateful prima donna anymore?”

“No, now I think he’s a totally fucked prima donna. Because besides Joel and Darren I see at least a couple others, Dr. Slut included, who won’t take the months leading up your wedding lying down. And if he can’t handle your exes coming for him, then he’s in for a seriously messed up time.”

“Not necessarily,” Craig said. “Holden’s aware of how we have to handle things. More so after today.”

There was a lengthy pause. During which he realized he was meant to have spoken up and say, yes, he was aware and ready. Instead the pause went on. Elliot shook ice in his cup and asked, “Are we sure?”

Craig only glanced at him. Yesterday when they had discussed, Craig had told him that the solution lay in what they were already planning, which was to bring Sean into his private social world. But that they had to land hard. Throw Sean in the deep end with them and take all comers. That it was the way they had always operated and anything less would leave suspicions and have half the men in their social circles patiently waiting for August. For when Sean returned to the NFL and they could plan on being first into his marital bed. With that in mind, by the way, Petey really was waiting to talk to him about Geffen’s party and calendaring the summer.

Elliot was still watching him. So he nodded.

“Yeah, I’m aware,” he said quietly.

“If he needs hand holding,” Craig said. “We can do that.”

Elliot sighed, long and deep, picked up a wrapped panini and a large wet cup and came over.

Setting his lunch on his desk, Elliot sat close to him on the desk’s edge and looked down at him.

“When are you talking to Petey?”

“We’re having breakfast tomorrow,” he said hoarsely.

Elliot nodded and pointed to the food. Then he faced forward and watched the city view. When he looked up, Elliot appeared to be thinking.

“What did you say to him, Elliot?” he softly asked him.

Elliot smiled down at him. Pointed at his lunch.

Across the room, Craig was almost done with his and was back to finishing the report.

He just sat there and looked at his plate.

*


	5. Chapter 5

“You wanna hear the truth? Those boys are a wrecking crew. Your boy Holden is a great guy, but like, the Disney version of a fairy tale. You know, like when you hear the real version and it’s actually R-rated but for all the right reasons.” Alvarez laughed. “That guy Craig will eat a man for breakfast and not even remember he had breakfast. Petey’s like this diamond ring you can’t afford but you’ll break bank getting. His fam’s rich Mexicans which means, basically they’re snobs. I’ll just keep it real like that. Elliot though? He’s more of an intellect. A real hardass. But he prefers you find out the hard way.” Another laugh. “They’ve done some sinning all right. More than you would believe. A lot of cool parties at Mrs. Wilson’s. Half the rich boys in LA, gay, straight and all the way in-between are scared of them but won’t admit. In Bel Air, I’ve heard it all. But I just laugh. They’re great guys.”

He couldn’t imagine the expression on his face.

He was trying not to appear shocked and simply couldn’t picture what he looked like.

Before Alvarez could turn and see for himself, he turned away and pretended to be looking for whether Alastair had appeared anywhere in the garden. Alastair hadn’t.

Wishing his sunglasses were on his face, he scratched his his jaw and waited for his reaction to pass.

Alvarez was laying out their lunch, light sesame, cucumber and octopus salads, with even lighter vinaigrettes. Most of the house staff was off for the day, their oldest around only to set up lunch for the boss before he too would be out. He’d been excited that Alvarez had stuck around because he’d fallen for both the guy’s food and his sharp wit.

And honestly, he’d thought to fish a little about Holden and his friends. Now he wished he’d kept his thoughts to himself. He’d only mentioned that he’d recently met a friend of Holden’s, Elliot, plus another one a few weeks back.

“White guy, tall and slender, or Mexican?” Alvarez had asked.

The former, he’d said, and Alvarez had nodded and embarked on educating him on the three men who were Holden’s closest friends. Telling him what he’d observed at cocktails apparently in an attempt to ease any concerns he might have. The revelations were meant to be assurances.

“How do you know about the parties at Cecelia’s?” he heard himself asking.

Alvarez looked at him like he was weird for asking. “We cater.”

He tightened his lips, nodded.

“Never you worry about Holden though,” Alvarez concluded, slipping dishes and sides onto the wrought iron table like the pro he was. “I know that not everybody likes R-rated, but personally I think it’s a good thing. Don’t know how I’d feel if Holden were female, but I think in a guy, it’s a good thing. A gay guy you’re trying to have a permanent relationship with? Don’t get me wrong, I heard you on Howard Stern. But guys can be pushy. Howard even said it. But Holden’s not a pushover. You want that. Hey, so your interview was the bomb, by the way. Didn’t want to forget to tell you that.”

Alastair appeared through the patio doors.

“All set, Mr. Wilson,” Alvarez said seamlessly. “Enjoy your meal.”

“If we don’t, you have my permission to declare us barbarians.”

Alvarez laughed, nodding at his boss, and gave him a thumbs up before leaving the patio.

Alastair indicated that he sit. 

It took a moment to compose himself. Pretending to position his shoulder back a chair, he took a little time to set it properly and sit. Then he sat with his hands folded on his stomach until he realized that he might be coming off as a little too pensive that way and set his elbows on the armrests instead.

But really, he didn’t need to digest anything he’d just heard. What business of his was it what Holden did with his friends? He’d already come to a conclusion about this particular subject matter.

_Then stop asking,_ his mind calmly told him.

Alastair settled in, making him sit forward and reach for his bag. He got out the folder containing all they’d achieved to date on the golf tournament. The info he’d shown Mark Hawthorne the other day.

He’d placed the folder before Alastair when Alastair’s girlfriend—no, _wife,_ Beau, suddenly appeared from interior of the house.

Holden had once told him that she worked in real estate and had been based in Houston before marrying his father. She tiptoed out in bare feet, striding daintily over to Alastair.

She was dressed only in a silk negligee thing that barely hit the top of her thighs. It made him want to hold his breath, feeling that if she so much as raised her voice too high he might get more of an eyeful than either he or Alastair would wish.

At Alastair's side now, she gracefully bent over and whispered in his ear.

While Alastair listened, he couldn’t help thinking, not even for the tenth time, that she never stayed if Holden were around. For reasons he couldn’t quite pin down, that bothered him. It seemed somehow an image of the things that had pushed father and son apart. 

Across the table, Alastair nodded. She straightened, and without a glance at him, returned inside. 

Reaching into his shirt pocket, Alastair withdrew a pair of reading glasses, opened the folder began reading.

Clearing his throat, he told him that all that was left was a confirmation of the venue.

“Shouldn’t be more than a couple days now,” Alastair replied. “Larry’s almost through discussing with your team’s owner.”

He lifted an eyebrow in surprise, then realized that of course they would all know each other. Being superrich was probably a clique like with anything else. They all used the same services, so that if Larry Nevins wanted to talk to the owner of the San Diego Chargers, he probably just made a call. Alastair read through emails and correspondences, assuring himself of reciprocity on commitments. And he was still looking when Alastair looked up across the table at him.

Alastair smiled unexpectedly at him.

Unsure of what was prompting it, he gave him a small smile back.

“You’re wondering why I’m smiling at you?”

He nodded, hiding the reaction the words had actually caused in him. When he had first started seeing Holden, Holden would pop out with questions like that. It used to charm him senseless.

“I’m smiling because this moment makes me very happy. I’ve had many afternoons like this with Holden. Him bringing me updates from work, me pretending to look them over while he sits right where you are now, eating or whatever.” Alastair chuckled. “He does a great job of running the firm, but nothing makes me happier than him still coming here and asking for my opinion like it still matters. I know I probably sound pathetic, but when you get to be an old man you’ll know what I mean.”

It didn’t sound pathetic, but it wasn’t what he’d expected to hear. It brought back to him the stresses Alastair had been going through over Holden and reminded him that, what Beau symbolized or no, this otherwise stubborn and determined lifelong businessman had remained positive and engaged where the love of his own stubborn son was concerned.

He gave Alastair a smile. “You’re gonna be hopeless at the wedding.”

Alastair laughed. “Happy to be.” Then, after a moment, looked at him over his rims. “Have I thanked you for the other day? For bringing him back?”

“You mean for springing my folks on you and Cecelia?”

Alastair snorted, amused. “Listen, I know he went to Iowa and brought them. No, that was great. You can’t come into negotiation without a little power on display. Especially when you’ve been hammered the first time around. No, I meant for the fact that you encourage him to return. To have some forgiveness for his old man. Call me wishful, but I do see some softening.”

“Not wishful. I think he’s getting used to the idea that we’re all in this together.”

Alastair nodded. Then he focused on reading, until, appearing satisfied, set the folder down, waved at their meal and started dishing salad.

He leaned forward. “I do have a concern though. How’re we really gonna guarantee attendance if the venue’s announced a month to the tournament? If it’s here in the States, fine. But elsewhere, don’t people need time to plan this kind of thing?”

“Not to worry, Sean. People are only too happy do what you say when you’re worth billions of dollars. Wealth has its advantages.”

He sat back slowly, once more killing his surprise. Why was he always forgetting that powerful people actually realized they had power and were only too happy to exercise it? Probably why he was always getting clobbered by them.

“So are you happy to be back?” Alastair asked. “New York is such a headache. And a week of it. I know Holden must have missed you.”

“Al, I don’t mind telling you, he’s all I thought about the whole time. I felt like a damn teenager.”

Alastair chuckled. Reminding him of how much Alastair enjoyed hearing about how much he loved his son. 

“I’ll be honest though,” he said. “I can’t wait for the summer to be over, wedding included.”

“Ah. Holden did mention that you were uncomfortable with a big wedding. Well, Holden wants it that way, so unfortunately for you, it’s gonna happen that way. Not because he always gets what he wants, but because I always make sure he gets what he wants.”

He smiled wryly. If only he could have recorded to play back the next time Holden complained that Alastair preferred his shiny new son-in-law to his actual son.

“Just wouldn’t mind him and I spending some quality time together before I’m outta offseason,” he said.

“You don’t feel the summer affords you enough time?” Alastair asked. Then, after a pause, “Or enough space maybe?”

He looked at Alastair. Typically astute, Alastair appeared to merely be asking. But he knew the man well enough by now to know that something else was coming. 

Alastair didn’t look up from his plate when he said, “I quite enjoyed your Howard Stern interview.”

And there it was.

He kept his eyes on his plate and muttered a thanks. Then began wondering what exactly Alastair might have enjoyed about it. The part where he’d pushed back on stereotyping gay men, or when he’d publicly announced that he’d chose to sleep with his son atop a list of randomly selected men?

“The interview was good,” he said, hoping to put the conversation aside. For whatever reason, maybe just residual self-preservation, he didn’t want Alastair in this particular relationship issue he had with Holden. “Entertaining as always. But you know Howard, he tries for the end zone every time.”

“Hmm,” Alastair said noncommittally.

And then he decided that he did in fact want to know.

“What exactly did you like about it?”

“I thought it was interesting, you wanting to stake your claim like that. Cute even.”

He slowly slid Alastair a look, which Alastair saw and broke in brief laughter.

“Come on, Sean,” he said dismissively. “But, you know, I had to wonder, who was it for? Surely not Holden. That takeover’s complete.”

He ate his salad, said nothing. 

“And as you know, I’m glad about that. Apart from for the obvious reason that you care about my own relationship with my son, it’s clearer each day that you never really had any challengers. Certainly not the self-absorbed young men who used to delude themselves about having ownership rights over Holden.”

“Like Darren Moran?”

“And others,” Alastair said casually.

The feeling of his heart squeezing in his chest made him stop talking. He wanted to continue to fish for more. But between talking to Alvarez and this, he’d had enough for one afternoon.

So he kept his mouth shut.

Although he had a very strong feeling that if he looked up, he’d find Alastair watching him.

*


	6. Chapter 6

When he had first started dating Sean, he’d had a choice to leave him alone. It didn’t take a relationship guru to see that Sean was without exception different from every guy he had ever slept with or taken the time to date. For two weeks straight he had watched Sean’s calls light up his BlackBerry, not convinced he should answer. Not sure what to do with someone like him. That Sean wasn’t out of the closet hadn’t even bothered him, when he had never once as an adult dated a man who wasn’t out. But nearly two months later, he still hadn’t deleted Sean’s contact info from his phone. And he never did.

Having glimpsed who Sean was, he had made a choice.

But he had also drawn a line across his lifestyle, and keeping Sean on the other side of it had been instinctual.

Now his friends were saying he had no choice but to take Sean by the hand and cross it?

He could keep insisting texts weren’t a problem. That they could be ignored. But he knew that wasn’t true nor was it even the problem. Sean was about to become a target for people who lived for taking shots. Joel had already taken his opening one. This was a problem he had created. Him and no one else.

And it was a problem he was sitting there wondering about the solution. Whether he was about to rely on a means of solving it that would only compound it.

For the first time in his life, he felt that if he could changed his past, he would have gladly done it.

He lowered his gaze to his iPhone. When he had left the office that evening, he had taken it with him. Now as he sat on Sean’s bed, about to go join Sean in Sean’s dimmed, candlelit living room, he just stared at it. It was on. It had several missed calls from his dad. And a couple of voicemails. His mother had left only texts and email. Craig’s suggestion had worked like a charm.

Sean had told him that the prenup was his mother’s idea and had caught his father by surprise as well. Maybe. But neither was it an alien concept to his dad.

And looking at the iPhone, he fully understood now why he had been filled with such dread to let them close to Sean. What was happening now was the culmination of the life he had led with their enabling. He wasn’t misplacing blame, just seeing things for what they were. It had been the only life they knew how to give him.

But it was finally here to challenge the one he wanted. Two and a half months to go to his wedding and everyone’s gloves were coming off.

And maybe because it was easier this way, he tapped on his dad’s first voicemail and brought the phone to his ear.

 _Hi, son, longest time. How are you? How are things going? Sean is keeping me updated, letting me know that wedding arrangements are going smoothly._ There was a pause. And maybe it was his imagination but it wrapped him in a caring warmth. _I love you, son. Come by for lunch whenever you get the chance._

He closed his eyes, pressed the phone to his ear and wanted to call him, to say, _dad, I need your help._

Instead when the message ended he lowered the phone, walked over to his brief and put it back in. He didn’t listen to the second voicemail, didn’t read any of their texts or emails. He just went back out into the living room.

Sean on the sofa in the corner, reading on his laptop. When he got to him he switched himself for the cushion Sean was using as head support. They were surrounded by candles in maybe…a rose scent? He put his feet up on an ottoman, slipped his hand into Sean’s hair, put his head back against the sofa and sighed.

“What’s that for?”

“Long fucking day.”

Sean had the laptop on his stomach so that he could now see what Sean was reading. Sean was on the website of the hotel they would be staying in Miami _actually reading_ the hotel’s description of their suite. And Sean looked more engrossed than he had seen him read anything since getting the draft of his new contract with the Chargers. Considering what had happened in Miami in October, and seeing as they were where they were in their relationship, Sean was clearly thinking of Miami as some kind of prayer answered. And at this point he didn’t blame him one bit.

“Hey, sweetheart…”

“What?” he asked interestedly.

“Have you see Marissa’s email?”

“Sure.” And looking down at him, he saw Sean was grinning. He wondered why for a second until he remembered what the emails had been, and smiled. Virtual galleries of their wedding setup. What they would be looking at Saturday.

“They were very nice,” he told a waiting Sean.

“They were more than nice,” Sean said, very obviously keeping his thrills in check.

“Look at us,” Sean said softly, wonder in his voice. “It’s April and we’ve broken all our records. Never broke up this offseason.”

“Didn’t you break up with me in January?”

Sean fell silent. He looked down at his face. Sean looked without words.

“What you should have said,” he told him softly. “Is that the offseason begins after the Super Bowl. So yeah, we never broke up this offseason.”

Sean raised his earnest, soft eyes at him.

He smiled down at him. “You like my reasoning?”

“I’m pretty sure I love it.”

He bent and kissed his forehead. And while Sean returned to looking at the site, he pulled his courage and went over the speech he had prepared for him regarding meeting Elliot. It had to be addressed. If Sean had really had previous run-ins with his exes over the years, or even if it was just Joel and Darren, he didn’t want his meeting Elliot to fall into the same category. He wanted it associated with positive things.

“Hey,” Sean suddenly said. “What do you feel about Patek watches?”

“I don’t,” he replied, a little confused, since Sean wasn’t looking at watches. “I wear Cartier.”

Sean was silent.

He bit the bullet and launched in.

“Sean, about you meeting Elliot. I— I know you— I just wanna say, Elliot is my closest friend. The best friend I’ve ever had. We go way back. Kinda like you and Davey. Well, not that far back. We met at USC, first day. He was the only one who didn’t suck up to me because of my family and we’ve been very close ever since.” He waited, watched Sean’s non reaction, not even the movement of his finger on the trackpad changed, until his eyeballs were in danger of drying out. And he hadn’t even gotten to the…part. “I— we’ve never— he’s not…he’s not a…”

He had lost all courage. He couldn’t say it.

“He’s a true friend,” he said instead. “And he really liked meeting you. He was very impressed, and he’s never impressed by anyone.”

Sean still had not so much as given away a clue.

Quietly, he concluded, “He’s a lawyer in Beverly Hills. Which is— his office is right across the street, which is why you guys ran into each other. I’m— really glad you two met.”

_And please God, please don’t ask me why I’ve never introduced you two._

“Sweetheart, you don’t have to explain anything to me.”

“But I want you to know because…he means a lot to me.”

Sean finally, slowly nodded. Then he titled up his head, tapped his lips. He leaned down and kissed them, a long, grateful, sucking kiss. Sean laughed, short brief, when he broke the kiss, and the sound was like a drug to him.

He sat back more comfortably, watched, kind of mesmerized as Sean scrolled the site. “We have to be in and out of Miami overnight, by the way” he told him. “I can’t stay.”

“That means we’re returning Sunday instead of Monday?” He nodded. “Evening?” He nodded again. “No problem, plenty of time.”

Sean moved the cursor, had navigated to another page. Across this page, a vast sunken copper bathtub and jacuzzi setup in a jewel blue bathroom materialized. Blue and gold flower petals and glowing candles seemed to float right off the screen.

“Look at this,” Sean breathed.

“You know there won’t be rose petals on the floor, right?”

*


	7. Chapter 7

Friday morning, for breakfast, he heard what he was supposed to pitch Sean in Miami. With David Geffen smiling very knowingly down at him.

Granted, Geffen was smiling from a framed portrait on the wall of his foundation offices’ gourmet catered, irreverently nicknamed “mess hall,” but still.

Petey, on the other hand, was all business. He had no idea how Petey pulled it off but Petey was somehow fully capable of looking affronted without seeming judgmental or petulant, so that the entire blame of an act, rightly or wrongly, came back squarely on you. At that moment, Petey was doing it flawlessly.

Petey sat aloof and self-righteous. Him, guilty and defensive.

The mess hall was always busy and 9:30 am made no difference. And while he was trying not to appear nervous or pushy, Petey was taking his time reading the card noting tea offerings. Petey then delicately raised a finger so that a server appeared. 

To the server, Petey said, “I’ll have black tea, whichever origin is fine, the semolina pancakes, honey-apple scrambled eggs, please.”

“Of course, Mr. Petersen. Anything for you, sir?”

He shook his head, impatient for the server to depart. 

“Of course you’ll have something,” Petey said, still looking at the card.

He picked up his card, scanned its literary descriptions, which looked like they would take forever to decipher, and put it back down.

“Just bring me what he’s having.”

“Bring him some milk and a ton of sugar with his tea, then, please. Holden likes sweet things.”

The server smiled broadly and left.

Petey lowered the card, then instead of looking at him spent the time watching as the server went somewhere behind him he couldn’t see, and appeared shortly with a caddy and an assortment of tea things. And then Petey continued watching as their tea was set up. As if the very reason for them being there.

Lips pressed tight, knowing he was being punished, he patiently waited.

Petey and Geffen had reached an understanding on the engagement party both director and boss were so very eager to throw him and Sean. The overall strategy for the summer was kind of like a publicity tour leading up to it, which if anyone asked him, was weird. But both Petey and Geffen seemed to think they had this great idea. And based on it Petey had assumed responsibility for planning his and Sean’s social coming out. His job was merely to listen. Hence his nervousness.

And also, Petey had of course heard that Elliot had met Sean. Hence, the pretty angry face.

The server finished and left. Petey began casually making himself some tea.

He cleared his throat. “Can we—”

Petey pinned him a deadly look.

“Come on, Petey,” he said peaceably. “I’m sorry. I didn’t arrange for Elliot to meet Sean. Elliot just— it was an accident. They met purely by chance.”

“You mean like how it happened with Craig?”

“Yes, actually. Exactly like that.”

“Oh, well, I guess I’m just a very unlucky person then.”

About to point out that he might actually be, he stopped when he noticed Petey’s locked jaw, the hurt pinch of his brow, the hard swallow.

“You’re not unlucky,” he said kindly.

“We’re not here for that, Holden,” Petey replied, all calm tones. “Not here for that at all.”

He nodded, glad to get to it. “Right. We’re here—”

“To end the bullshit,” Petey said, set his cup to cool and sat back. Parked his gaze on him. “How does that sound?” But before he could answer, Petey said, “I get that you don’t want your relationship managed. Which as you know, I think is hypocritical and maybe a little selfish. Because, as I’ve previously said, up til now, your family has managed your entire life and it’s never posed a problem. And in fact it’s let you be exactly who you are. Only that now it clashes with your own desires.”

He opened his mouth.

“Let’s not get derailed, Holden. And honestly, managed it already is. And Cece or no, it’s not like you to let the media set the story. We’re not losing this thing just because it’s new and uncomfortable territory for you. Let a bunch of yesterday’s news fuck up what’s sure to be the most beautiful day of my life? I don’t think so. And yours of course.”

He frowned, trying to understand what Petey had just said. And not about the managing his life part. Especially because Petey now looked momentarily flustered before hurriedly turning away.

“So let’s make it ours,” Petey continued, pulling a thick Moleskin journal towards him. “Craig said to make sure to keep it real no matter what you said. So no cocktails in Hombly Hills or Bel Air. No family engagements where the boys are on their best behavior. We’re trying to break their moves. Otherwise. Lover. We both know your exes will pave the floor with Sean.”

“He can hold his own,” he said defensively. “I mean- I’d rather not—”

“Expose him to the horror in the first place, I definitely get it. God only knows why, Holden, but your exes are insufferable.”

“Not all of them…”

“I don’t care. _I_ don’t want him exposed to that jerk parade if I can help it.”

Again, Petey’s voice had struck a rather emotional undertone. And again Petey looked like someone had stuck their hands in his feathers and ruffled very hard.

“Um, Petey...”

“Let’s get right to it. I have three major categories of outings for you two. Two areas very down to earth, the third a little more structured—fundraisers, that sort of thing. All culminating in my boss’s engagement party for you.”

“Yeah, about that. So, we’re _sure_ we have to have that party?”

Petey looked at him. “Holden, look around you. You’re in a place where employees see everyone of note almost daily, from movie stars to international business moguls. Yet whenever you come in for lunch people leave their second floor offices to come get an eyeful. Do you even notice that?” 

Surprised, he was about looking around when Petey slowly shook his head no. So he kept his eyes forward.

“Cece and Alastair’s wedding was the ultimate event of their social world. Yours and Sean’s will make that look quaint. Do you understand what that means?”

“Actually… I was talking about whether we… whether we actually need to have, you know….a _Geffen_ party.”

“We’ll get to that. But I need you ready to commit to this summer. So I need you to open your mouth and say you’re ready to commit to proving Sean the number one man in your life.”

“The _only_ man in my life,” he said, his nervousness spiking. “Why do you have that misconception?”

“Exactly. So are you ready to commit?”

“And stop saying that word. I know I used to hate it but you don’t have to keep repeating it at me like the ghost of Christmas past.”

“But do you get what I’m saying?” Petey asked testily.

“Yes, I get you. No hiding, no backing away. We’re here because you’re going to give me some ideas, some concepts about the types of events that’ll make this go down easier.”

“No, not ideas. I’m going tell you what you’re going to be _doing._ We’re not being ambiguous here, Holden. We’re creating a schedule.”

“Based on what exactly?”

“Based on your social calendar. Which, interestingly, more or less matches his.”

“Wait, how do you know what’s on his social calendar?”

Petey stopped and gave him the most put-upon expression he had ever seen. Exactly like those too-perfect models always seemed to be giving everyone else from magazine pages. He shifted his eyes to Petey’s tea cup momentarily.

“Holden, it’s not private information. What do you think we do here? Sean is on every charity organization’s invitation list. Same as you. Isn’t that how you two met?”

“Oh. Right. You’re right,” he said humbly. “That was annoying of me. But I— I do have to ask. Why does this have to be managed? Why can’t I just…” he took a huge breath, hardly believing he was about to say it. “Why can’t I just bring him with me the next time we go to a bar?”

“Because it’s a publicity campaign for your wedding. Remember that you and David discussed this at the foundation’s reception in March? Once you agree to this, we’re building up to your engagement party. It has to be very obvious what you’re doing. And not just the public facing side. We have to canvas your entire private party world. The one you’ve been living in before committing to him. Failing that, you’ll be sending a message that some areas of your private life are still open for business as usual.”

He let that sink in. It was the central issue he was facing. Clearing out every room in his former private lifestyle. And so, chastened, he listened to Petey’s proposal. 

The first category was the least worrisome, the dinners, formals and fundraisers they made it a point to attend throughout the week, the ones with less potential volatility to them, Petey explained, referring to his Moleskin.

“Where you’re in no danger of someone coming to sit in your lap.”

“What?” he said. “That happened maybe…a couple of times.”

“If by a couple you mean a lot of times. And since you seem to think it’s a perfectly normal way for men who just met to greet each other, it’s a core issue around which I found it necessary to structure a whole category of events.”

About to say he hadn’t had that kind of interaction in over a year, flashes of last winter suddenly crossed his mind. Of staying drunk and getting babysat because that might actually have been happening without his altogether remembering.

The second category, Petey continued, comprised of art showings, venue openings and the like.

“Also probably safe places,” Petey said. “No one wants to act stupid and get blacklisted.”

Petey then softly cleared his throat. “And then we have our last category, bars, private house parties, lounges. Everyone knows he’s never been seen at a single gay bar in L.A. Which, I must tell you, pissed the gay community here off when he showed up at that gay club in Des Moines.”

He had actually been trying to make himself some tea. Now he looked across the table at Petey. “What?”

Petey gave him an apologetic look and nodded.

“So, we can kill two publicity birds with one bars and lounges category. Show everyone your very special, _very_ real, true love, and show L.A.’s gay community that he doesn’t have any animosity towards them.”

He sat speechlessly for a second. “He doesn’t owe gay men a night in West Hollywood. That’s nuts.”

“You know that’s not it. But don’t worry about it, babe. It’s not why we’re doing this.”

He set down the little silver spoon and sighed. 

“So we’re going to take him to a bar or two,” he said. “And have a drink or two, and that’s gonna change my life?”

“Yes, Holden. We’re going to take him to a bar, and we’re gonna have a fucking drink. You know very well that this is actually the most difficult category, so don’t make it sound like it’s some crazy idea. This is a fucking fire fight, and we are not losing. You nearly scorched everyone and everything in sight last summer when the Family Research Council tried to turn Sean into a monster. You think we’re coming in less hard with your men trying to turn him into a piece of trivia?”

“Those two things are kind of—”

“They are.”

He closed his mouth and stared at Petey. Petey took a delicate, almost unnoticeable breath, and his calm expression seemed to waver as if other, most exciting thoughts had intruded and broken his focus. Then he turned back to his Moleskin, staring in concentration at it.

“I think that’s everything,” Petey said softly.

“No, it isn’t…” Leaning in, he lowered his voice to a whisper. “You need to tell me about Geffen’s party. Just tell me. What did you and David decide? What are we going for?”

Petey glanced at him. “David has asked me to keep the style of the party a secret.”

“If it’s a secret, how will Sean and I prepare for it?”

“Why do you feel you have to prepare for it?”

“Is it a brothel, Petey?”

Petey threw him a coy look. “Maybe a roleplaying one?”

He stared at Petey. “What are you…”

“Oh, you know. For instance, you could be his _frustrated_ manager…he could be the broody yet gifted football star…”

“What’re you— How—-what—” 

“Drunk you was fun.”

He sat frozen, nothing coming to him mind by way of a coverup. He hadn’t. He couldn’t have.

Petey was smiling, at last. A wholly innocent smile that had looking like the deceptively scattered, distractedly good looking kid he had once run into at an event kitchen.

“It’s not a brothel, Holden. It’s going to be a lovely surprise.”

“Please, no more surprises, Petey. I was banking on Sean and I planning this thing together.”

Petey softly said, “Well, the two of you will just have to be… _surprised_ together then.”

Petey hadn’t finished speaking when his complexion started turning a rust red. He stared at Petey, wondering what he was seeing. Why on earth Petey was blushing. He asked him just that. Petey slowly shook his head, then turned away. 

It was like a scene from a period movie, some Victorian maiden turning away because she was too scandalized by her own thoughts. He was actually seeing it. And trying to think of what either of them might have just said to be getting such a reaction, he came up with nothing.

“Why’re you blushing?” he asked again.

“Who says I’m blushing?”

And Petey went right on blushing. Breathing delicately, not looking at him. Until… and he was seeing this… Petey’s flush seemed to peak and Petey softly blew out a gentle breath. And then sat very still.

His stunned brain took a few moments to catch up to the visual. Were they not in the middle of having breakfast in a cafeteria, he would have staked money that Petey had just had a…sexual release. 

Just then, a guy appeared at their table. At first he thought it was their server, but he was looking up at a fifty-something man staring rather passionately down at Petey.

“Hi, Corey,” Petey said mildly, not looking up.

Corey looked from Petey to him, his face slack in the way many gay men this close to Petey reacted, and tried a few times to talk. Petey waited patiently.

Corey murmured something about fund approvals that needed signatures. And when nothing else was added, it was obvious that Corey was there for anything but funds approval. Petey sighed, in a way he imagined overworked models on a photoshoot sighed, looked up at Corey.

“Ok, Corey,” Petey said.

Corey then pretty much stripped Petey naked with his eyes, then simply left, telling him he’d get him the approvals by lunch.

Petey didn’t so much as look up. Just slowly shook his head as he check marked his Moleskin. “Some people. The things that go on in their perverted minds. Where were we?”

“Geffen’s party,” he said. “Sean.”

“Yes,” Petey breathed softly. “Sean.” A pause, then, “Doesn’t he like surprises?”

And there before his eyes, no, he wasn’t imagining things, came the deep red flush. Sweeping up Petey’s neck, inching toward his face.

“He seems like he would.”

 _Oh,_ he thought, mentally closing his eyes, hardly believing it, _brother._

—

“Did Petey really blush thinking about _surprising_ Sean?” Elliot cried. Elliot was laughing so hard his words were mostly garbled.

“No,” he said, holding his head, still mortified. “He didn’t just blush. He had an orgasm.”

Elliot broke into a wail. And his own amusement was interrupting his attempts at retelling the meeting, so he’d just given up.

“Elliot,” he said, shaking his head, staring out at the city through his glass walls. “I am so fucked this summer. It would be so funny if I weren’t so fucked.”

The glass walls were supposed to give the executive standing there a big picture view at all times. Well, he was seeing a big hi-def picture of a city waiting to pay back in spades.

He sighed. “I mean, is Petey even going to be on my side this summer?”

Elliot was quietly dying.

He placed his head on the glass. _Absolutely fucked._

—

That evening, before either of them went home for the day, he made Elliot come with him to his mother’s house. They were to pick up her selection of charity organizations for the gift registry. Something she could have easily emailed, but why, when it could be better used as an opportunity to tell him he never visited anymore.

Elliot pulled in after him as the gates closed and soon they were in her backyard. A small dinner was laid at a garden table, from she was apparently nibbling food while gardening. At the patio’s edge was a giant stone planter, one he recognized as having come from upstairs, and there she was surrounded by gardening implements and was already covered to the knees in soil. He grudgingly noticed that her backyard and gardens looked incredible in the evening lights. Elliot continued over to greet her but he stopped at the table and took in the neat binders around her dinner. Which included some that looked like they could have been from Soirée. The sight puzzled him. Why would she need binders from Soirée for a gift registry? Maybe one, if she needed their procedures for setting it up. Beyond that, she certainly didn’t need this many.

“Hello, Elliot,” she said fondly as Elliot hugged her. “Don’t you look handsome this evening.”

“I try, Cece,” Elliot said, receiving air kisses. “I do try. Thank you for noticing.”

She laughed airily. Pretty much a real one. Making more of an effort, he couldn’t help noting, than she ever did with Sean.

“How’s young Jaime?”

“A little stressed, none the worse.”

“And Craig of course is still very much hard at work for us. All this wedding planning has taken up so much of Holden’s time. It’s been ages since you boys came by for cocktails. Darling, you see, you used to be so much more social.”

“We miss you too,” Elliot said quickly. “And I will pass your displeasure along. But it _is_ very exciting that Holden’s getting married.”

She sighed. “Honestly, it’s like he’s learned nothing.”

While Elliot tried to maintain composure, she gave a small shake of her head.

“Really. _Love._ I used to be so in love with his father. But at least I kept my head about it. And thank God for that.”

“And you kept it beautifully, Cecelia,” Elliot said. “I know if I’d inherited your genes, I too might be marrying a famous NFL quarterback.”

She waved a hand, smiling. Then setting aside her garden gloves and small shears, she poured herself a cup of tea from a stone ledge and sat. Sipping, and without looking at him, she started thanking them for attending the reception Monday evening.

“I was just exhausted from being in San Francisco for the weekend and hadn’t the mental strength for excitable media people.”

“What were you doing in San Fran, you jet-setter?”

“There was a fundraiser for the renovation of the opera house. Ugh, I don’t mind San Francisco, but not in April.” 

Then she smiled at Elliot. A calculated smile.

His attention was still being split by the binders on the table. Which with him right there, he could see all had Soirée’s discreet logo embossed on the lower right side. They were slim binders, the thickness of college notebooks, not the thick ones used for a complete wedding portfolio. What was most notable about them though, and about the various items featured inside them as he lifted a couple pages, were their featured color schemes. Light blue and a kind of…wheat.

“I understand you ran into Darren at the reception,” he heard his mother saying. “Which I suppose isn’t unexpected.”

“H, was he there?” Elliot asked the air around him, barely hiding his distaste. “Did we see him somewhere across the room maybe?”

He was silent, staring at the binders.

“Poor Darren is heartbroken,” his mother said. “Who would have thought?”

His attention on the binders, on the information it appeared Soirée had sent his mother about his wedding without his knowledge or consent—was _that_ what he was seeing?—he didn’t register what his mother was saying about the reception on Monday. It was Elliot’s sudden heavy silence, so loud a replacement of his usual flirtation with her, that brought his attention to the present and her words seeping into his head. 

He looked up from the table and stared across her beautiful bluestone patio at her.

She gave him a wistful twist of her lips, a smile, as though she too were just hearing this unfortunate piece of news, which she just had to pass along.

Elliot had turned to him, brow drawn. A probable reflection of his own expression. “Sorry, Cecelia,” Elliot said. “Did you say that Darren is— heartbroken?”

“He wouldn’t stop talking about it, the poor thing. About you, darling. About how he regrets not making his feelings known before now. I just— I mean, what could I say?”

“Darren told you he has feelings for Holden,” Elliot asked flatly.

“He certainly did. They did date for— how long was it, darling? Well, years. Nowadays, who would have even been surprised had there been a marriage proposal.”

“What did you say to him?” Elliot pushed.

“Well, what could I say? I told him that if I saw Holden at a reception we were to attend Monday night, I’d let him know he’d mentioned wanting to see him.”

But she _hadn’t_ gone to the reception. She’d just made sure _he_ went.

“Did he get to speak with you, darling?” she now asked innocently. “I hope he was articulate. He was beside himself when he came by Friday evening. I suppose the thought of you getting married is just the biggest shock to him. None of them thought it was _real_ last summer, you know.”

He suddenly could speak. “What did you think sending him to see me would accomplish?” he heard himself asking softly.

But he couldn’t raise his voice. He hated so much that always he wanted to yell at her, yet he could never raise his voice. Why, when at the slightest provocation he could rail at his dad. But when she hurt him his voice became locked in a box.

“Why would you do something like that?” he asked.

He must have looked how he couldn’t express because Elliot had gotten behind her and was making discreet “pipe down” gestures.

“I don’t know that I meant to accomplish anything, dear. He sat here stammering that he realized he was still madly in love with you and that he deserved a second chance, if only you’d speak to him. I was quite surprised. I merely told him where he could find you.”

“Mom,” he said incredulously. “Relationships aren’t a deck of cards. I’m not just randomly _picking_ one.”

The words were out before he realized he’d chosen the worst possible analogy given his dating history. She gave him a loaded look.

“Darling, I didn’t ask you to call off your wedding. I merely got him an invitation to a place where he could speak with you if he wished.”

Immobilized, he struggled against the hurt that was gripping his stomach. He wanted to ask her why she wouldn’t just accept Sean. Why even after meeting Anne she couldn’t see what he so desperately wanted her to see.

And he wanted to ask what precisely he was seeing on her dinner table.

But he merely stood there, without Sean to come to his rescue, thinking of Anne, and suddenly, angrily, feeling his eyes prickle. At a complete loss, unable to remember what he was supposed to be doing or saying, he looked at Elliot.

Elliot walked around her and came towards the table.

“All the boys are after your son, Cecelia. You know that. If we had to listen to every Darren lamenting about missed opportunities, we’d be paying rent at receptions.”

Before either him or his mother could reply, Elliot was by him at the table pushing aside binders with his forefinger.

“Is that gift registry somewhere here, Cecelia?”

Setting down her tea cup, she quietly came forward, slipped the registry from under a closed planner and handed it to Elliot. Elliot took it, thanked her with a peck to her cheek.

“We have got to run, Cecelia,” Elliot said apologetically, before turning toward him and beginning to leave. But not before flashing him a look that said he was to follow without question.

“Elliot, do try and arrange for more get togethers for us this summer. Holden is all but ignoring me these days.”

“Of course, Cecelia. Consider it part of my best man duties.”

But he wasn’t able to make himself move like Elliot had, so that he was still at the table when she came up, and taking him by the shoulders, brushed her cheek against his in a vague expression of something. He stiffly turned and followed Elliot. Unable to speak, unable even to make eye contact with her.

—

“Are we drunk or did Cecelia just say she sent Darren after you?”

Elliot was staring wide-eyed at him. As if expecting him to have an answer. As if he were in a lesser state of shock.

“And did she say that Darren said he’s _in love_ with you? Did we even know that?” Elliot looked like he was having an aneurism. “Is- is she even aware that Alastair can’t fucking stand Darren? _Why_ the fuck would she—” Elliot stopped talking, his thoughts still running ahead behind his eyes. But he raised a hand. 

“Get back from Miami,” Elliot said. “Then let’s get you and Sean out there. And let’s see that dumb bitch Darren try and come near you then.”

He must have looked no less shellshocked.

“Holden. It’s fine. It’s fine. Just make sure you talk to Sean on your trip. You’ve met with Petey, so just prep him, so that when you guys get back we’ll be on top of this.”

He nodded. And just kept nodding. Talk to Sean who was declaring a total blackout on the existence of that world. Sean who was refusing to give in to tension over Joel. And over his totally crap attempt at assuring him that he and Elliot had never dated. That Sean. He was just having some fun picturing how he was going to talk to him in Miami, the things he could say. _Hey, Sean, come hang with me and every Joel and Darren I’ve ever dated? We’ll take you to bars, have you sit and watch while guys hit on me nonstop, hit on you when my back is turned, and all in all have two great months leading up to our completely monogamous marriage. Should be fun. Oh, and also, my mother isn’t done with trying her hand at sabotaging our wedding plans._

Was that what his friends expected him to say this weekend?

“Okay, good,” Elliot said, reaching for his Jaguar’s door handle. “Do what you do so well, Holden. Handle this. And call if you need anything. I’m no longer mad at you so I will be taking your calls.”

He just continued nodding, then stepped back, waved a little, watched him drive off.

It was Friday. Like some kind of cosmic joke, suddenly realized it. Monday he’d been upset that Elliot wasn’t being on his side. Wasn’t even trying to be understanding about Darren and was focused on the wrong thing. Now Elliot was on his side. Fully on about Darren, focused on the right thing.

And now it was a bad thing.

Who exactly was it, and what had they experienced to have known to coin the phrase, be careful what you wished for?

*

_Part III coming this week!_


End file.
